


Treason, Traitors, and Treachery

by Kryptaria, rayvanfox



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Q, Case Fic, M/M, Post-Skyfall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 63,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3513665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All James Bond wanted was a quiet holiday on his luxury motoryacht on the Costa del Sol. Time to recuperate and think about his future with MI6. But his plans get hijacked when a traitor to the crown returns, bringing news of an even greater threat to MI6. And the traitor isn't working alone.</p><p>Thankfully, neither is James.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic that would not be written! A year and a half after the plot bunny was born, we've finally finished it. And wow, what a ride.
> 
> We'd like to thank our betas and cheerleaders: ahappilee, barquebatch, littlerosetrove, neverwhere, ravenclawinstarfleet, scriptrixlatinae, and zephyrfox. (If at some point you worked on one of the revisions and we've forgotten your name, we apologize! Please drop us a note so we can give credit.)

**Saturday, 17 August 2013**

Just two hundred metres away from the harbour, the world was silent, save for the slap of water against the hull. The motoryacht had no sails to creak and flap — and there was no wind to stir them, if they’d been there. Just the lightest breeze, enough to keep the afternoon sun’s heat from being stifling.

The solitude was more than welcome. Practically a medical necessity, in James Bond’s mind. After the last year, he deserved a holiday, even if he’d had to damned near threaten retirement to get authorisation.

He carried only two remnants of his daily life, out of habit: the Walther currently resting beside his towel and the burner phone he’d picked up in Malaga. Only one person in the world had that phone number. When the mobile vibrated with an incoming call, James picked it up and answered, “No.”

“You _don’t_ miss me? Arse,” Alec said, laughter apparent in his deep voice.

“No,” James repeated, not bothering to open his eyes. “And if you miss me so damned much that you feel obligated to interrupt my holiday, you can come here and tell me yourself — if you can find me.” He allowed himself to smirk as he added, “This phone’s barely able to pick up a signal.”

“So lovely to see you give a damn. I’m just calling to let you know I’ll be in America for the next three days, babysitting.”

James opened his mouth to ask for mission details. _Babysitting_ meant protecting a diplomatic asset. But he was on holiday, which meant _no bloody work_.

“Have a lovely time,” he said instead. “Get me a present.”

“Get your own bloody presents. What the hell would you even want?”

“Where are you going? America’s big.”

“The Consulate-General in Houston.”

“Houston,” James mused. Then he snickered. “Get me a horse.”

“Oh, right. I’ll just pop it in the overhead bin on the way back. Enjoy your holiday,” Alec said dryly. “Try not to get eaten by fish.”

“Don’t get run over by the cattle,” James said, disconnecting. He dropped the mobile beside the Walther, sat up long enough to smooth out the towel, and then settled comfortably back down. He’d anchored the boat so he’d have another couple of hours of shade on the deck. When the sun dipped low enough, it would wake him, and he’d either go downstairs to cook dinner or, more likely, bring the boat back to port. The tiny harbour outside Malaga had enough restaurants to keep him occupied for a few nights. And if he got bored, he had the whole Mediterranean to explore.

 

~~~

 

**Wednesday, 21 August 2013**

Heavy wind gusts had the yacht straining at the mooring lines. James switched the carrier bags to one hand so he could swing himself onto the boat’s back platform. He climbed up the narrow, curved staircase to the bridge, where the wind was tearing at the soft walls he’d fastened in place earlier. He dropped the carrier bags and leaned back out to check the sky one more time. No clouds. He’d take the walls back down later, before the wind could tear the plastic.

For now, he stocked the upper deck fridge with two bottles of wine. Then he unlocked the boat’s security alarm, a GPS-based system that would send an alert if the boat moved more than twenty metres from the dock. He’d intended to ask one of the Q Branch techs to upgrade it, but they’d all been... touchy, ever since their former department lead had defected. Besides, James suspected the department-wide purge to eliminate any hint of security threats hadn’t been thorough enough.

Just the thought brought back some of the anger James had hoped to escape with this holiday. He’d never even learned Q’s proper name — only his cover identity of Adam Bradshaw. M’s corpse had barely been cold before Q disappeared with every scrap of Silva’s data and technology. As it turned out, Q’s entire history had been a masterwork of backstopping, enabling him to pass every one of MI6’s security checks.

And all of it had been false.

James’ private theory was that Q had been working for Silva all along. He’d been Silva’s failsafe, poised to take up where Silva had left off, in the event of Silva’s failure or death. For three straight months, James and Alec had hunted every last whisper of Q, to no avail. He’d disappeared, and eventually Mallory had recalled them to headquarters. There were other priorities. Other missions. And MI6 couldn’t afford to have its two senior operatives chasing a ghost.

Still angry at the memory, James unlocked the door to the salon below. He brought the groceries to the galley, where he put one bag in the fridge without bothering to unpack. The other, he shoved into a cupboard before going for the whisky. He poured himself a drink, toed off his shoes, and then went to the forward cabin. It was smaller than the aft cabin but had a skylight overhead.

By the time he’d showered and changed into jeans and a T-shirt, he’d pushed his anger aside. He went back into the galley, where he finally stowed the groceries. As he poured himself another whisky, he realised the boat was no longer rocking. The wind had died down.

Should he leave the harbour? The boat was stable, able to withstand almost anything the Mediterranean threw at it, but it was always safer to sleep in port. And he’d have the benefit of hookups for electricity, water, and waste.

He’d stay. The wind could pick up again during the night, and he’d had enough to drink that he probably shouldn’t be setting anchors. Besides, there were other boaters at the harbour. He might be able to find company.

He brought his drink up to the bridge, where he unfastened the temporary walls surrounding the aft deck and cockpit. No matter what happened tonight, he’d be leaving tomorrow for a dive spot he liked.

The bridge lights were low enough to keep from spoiling his nightvision. He’d taken a berth at the very end of the pier, where he wouldn’t be bothered by the noise of the town. He stowed the folded walls under the seat cushions in the dining area aft of the captain’s chair, then sat down to finish his drink.

A pinch in his shoulder made him shift away. He turned, thinking the seat cushion’s stitching had come loose, leaving a sharp edge exposed —

Instead, he saw a dart embedded in his shoulder. The plunger was fully depressed; whatever chemical it had carried was already in him.

No amount of training could completely suppress his physiological reaction. His heart rate accelerated, carrying adrenaline and something _else_ through his body. He felt no pain, but before he’d even turned to face where the dart had surely come from, his vision was blurring. Tranquiliser, then, rather than poison.

Defence was pointless. He went instead for his mobile. Alec was programmed on speed dial 1.

He picked up the mobile and promptly dropped it as the numbness reached his fingers. He sat, not wasting breath with swearing, and scooped up the mobile. He’d locked it out of habit, and he fumbled to get it to the unlock screen, but he kept hitting emergency call instead.

Not that civilian emergency services would accomplish anything —


	2. Chapter 2

** Thursday, 22 August 2013 **

Everything was moving. Tilting. Rocking from one side to the other.

Disorientation. Dizziness. James _hated_ his life sometimes.

Training helped James keep his eyes closed and breathing shallow, even though all he wanted to do was roll over and empty his stomach.

And training helped James to keep calm and take stock of his surroundings. Thin, scratchy material under his right forearm. Both arms were uncomfortably pulled back and around a cool post. Metal cuffs bit into his wrists, holding his hands two inches apart. Rigid cuffs, then, _and_ he’d been secured to something before he’d been dumped on his side.

Lovely.

Naturally the Walther was gone from the holster at the small of his back. The folding knife in his front right pocket was gone. His bloody _belt_ was gone, and yes, it had a punch-dagger in the buckle, but he _liked_ that belt.

He tensed his muscles without moving, testing his freedom of movement. Socks but no shoes. Ankles bound together.

He took a slightly deeper breath and told himself that vomiting would be _very_ bad. His mouth had gone dry, and his tongue tasted like something had died on it. He _despised_ tranquilisers, though not nearly as much as what came afterwards.

There was no point in speculating further. He wasn’t dead, but he would be, soon — or he’d want to be. No one took a Double O captive to have a nice holiday.

The thought helped him relax. Death brought a curious mindset with it. Death meant freedom to do anything he liked, without remorse or restraint.

When the boat rocked again, he let his body shift as if he were still unconscious, hiding the way he twisted his wrists, testing the cuffs. They were tight against his skin, without enough slack for him to turn. He’d have to break his hand to get out, and that might be difficult to manage.

The boat came to a slow, gentle halt. James kept his breathing slow and shallow despite the useless surge of adrenaline that hit his system. He didn’t dare try to sit up — not with the way his gut felt.

He opened his eyes, but even that was pointless. There was nothing to see. He recognised the padded vinyl bench seats aft of the captain’s chair, which meant he was under the table, cuffed to the metal leg. That, at least, was good news. With time, he’d be able to work the table free, though he’d probably end up breaking an arm in the attempt. For now, though, he was thoroughly trapped.

Why the _fuck_ hadn’t he insisted Alec come with him?

Right. Because he’d planned on _not_ spending his entire holiday alone, and as much as Alec was James’ type, the reverse wasn’t true.

As the engines quieted to idle, he heard the creak of vinyl coming from the captain’s seat. Then, footsteps, almost too soft to hear, moving from the thinly carpeted deck to the hardwood stairs leading below.

James’ heart thumped. He couldn’t twist around to see if he was being watched. How many attackers were there?

Even if someone was watching him, he had to try to free himself. After he heard the footsteps descend into the salon, he twisted his wrists hard against the cuffs, straining to keep silent. At least the rigid cuffs, with a hinged plate between the bracelets, didn’t have a chain to clink loudly.

But the cuffs were tight enough that even breaking his hand might not get him free. He pushed gingerly at the table, but it didn’t rock. He’d secured it in place two nights earlier, when he’d brought... What was his name? Deep brown eyes, long black hair, dark skin...

Growling at himself, he dragged his thoughts back to the present. The table wouldn’t move without making noise to wake the dead, and he couldn’t get out of his cuffs. Bloody fantastic.

With no choice but to wait, he got as comfortable as he could, shifting to take some of his weight off his right shoulder before his hand went completely numb. He wondered if he’d be able to talk his captors into offering him a drink before the torture started or if this was going to turn bloody as soon as they realised he was conscious.

And this was his damned holiday.

It felt like forever before he heard footfalls on the steps, then on the carpet. He took a deep breath and spoke up, though his throat was dry, voice raspy. “If you don’t set the anchor, we’ll drift.”

The feet stopped in front of him, sporting rubber-soled shoes and light twill trousers. A quiet, modulated voice came from above the table. “That’s all right. Welcome back to consciousness, 007.”

It took a full three seconds before the impossibility of that voice filtered through James’ racing thoughts. _The Quartermaster_.

No. Not the Quartermaster.

Casually as he could, he said, “Nice to see you again, Bradshaw. What brings you to Spain?”

Adam Bradshaw, former Quartermaster, crouched down to make eye contact, his gaze assessing, analysing. The ex-quartermaster was without glasses, and his hair was much shorter, though there were still strands of fringe falling over his eyes. He looked drawn out and wiry, but not any more thin. In his right hand, he held James’ Walther, and adrenaline hit James’ bloodstream, burning out the last of the tranquiliser.

“Quite nice to see you as well, Bond. But please, call me Q. I haven’t been Adam Bradshaw for some time.”

“You threw away the right to call yourself my Quartermaster,” James said, anger overriding his admittedly poor sense of self-preservation.

The traitor winced, then said, “True. But since I’m the one with the gun, you’ll address me how I like.”

“Bollocks,” James snapped. “I’m on holiday, not working. You know where the nearest MI6 station is. I suggest you unlock the cuffs, get off my bloody boat, and go bother them instead.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your kind offer.” The bastard shook his head as if regretful. “You and your bloody boat are far too useful.”

That meant he wouldn’t be killing James any time soon — a thought that wasn’t nearly as comforting as a civilian might think. Before turning traitor, the former Quartermaster had done nearly as much damage to MI6’s infrastructure as Silva had done. And James wasn’t about to gamble that his ruthless streak was limited to just computers.

There were a lot of people — targets, enemy governments, even so-called allies — who would make that bloody traitor a very wealthy man in exchange for handing over a living Double O. James wasn’t dead now, but that only guaranteed that he’d _want_ to be, before this was all over.

And unfortunately, Bradshaw — _Q_ , if necessary — had seen James in the field. He knew better than to believe a false show of surrender. Instead, James was going to have to provoke him into losing his temper, if he even _had_ a bloody temper, and making a mistake. There wasn’t a chance in hell James was going to be rescued, with Alec on assignment in America and the rest of MI6 blithely unaware of James’ chosen holiday plans.

So he met eyes that looked grey-blue in the subdued light of the lounge and bluntly said, “You know better than to think I’ll help you in any way.”

“I know you don’t _want_ to help me. But...” Q casually raised the muzzle of the gun to aim directly at James’ face. “You might not have any sort of choice.”

James quashed the urge to swallow and tried to calm his racing heart. “Let’s not do anything hasty.”

A thin smile spread across the traitor’s face. “You know me, 007. I don’t do _anything_ hastily.”

Christ, the bastard wasn’t even rattled. James shifted, trying to ease the strain in his shoulders, hoping that somehow the cuffs had magically loosened enough for him to slip out. “Then let’s get this over with,” he said bluntly, trying to look into Q’s eyes and not the Walther’s muzzle. “What do you want?”

“It’s quite simple, really.” Q knelt down on one knee, the other pressed close to his chest. He lowered the gun only slightly to look closely at James’ face. “I need access to your phone.”

_The phone?_ Did he mean the ship’s radio? Or did he want the disposable mobile James had picked up solely to chat with Alec when bored? And what the bloody hell did he want with either?

“There’s an entire city full of phones —” He cut off when he realised he had no idea how far out they were from the harbour, and his heart skipped at the thought that he was bound and helpless on a boat with someone who might very well have no idea how to drive the bloody thing. He managed a smile, though it was far from genuine. “Surely you can charm some nice girl into letting you use hers.”

Q’s eyes looked flinty as he said, “I’d much rather charm you out of yours. Or” — he turned the gun away from James’ face, only to aim it, point blank, at James’ left knee — “shall I dispense with the charming and move on to the coercion and pain?”

James had seduced more than his fair share of men, both for political and personal reasons. Once, he would’ve jumped at the chance to have this one in particular. From the moment he’d laid eyes on the then-Quartermaster, he’d been interested. Intrigued, even.

But the one thing James loved more than almost anything in the world was England, for all her flaws and shortcomings, and Q had betrayed her — had betrayed _James_. And for once in his life, he wasn’t entirely certain he could fake enough interest to be convincing.

“Just how close to shore are we?” James asked, buying time — and, yes, fishing for information. “This is Spain, not Texas. People will notice gunshots.”

“Open water. A long way off.” There was something nasty in Q’s smile — something hard, with an edge of pain, and James went cold inside to see it. “We’re all alone, Bond.”

_Bugger._

There was nothing on the boat that would compromise security. Even James’ credit cards were under a false name that had nothing to do with MI6, and the boat itself was registered to a British company that would be traced back to a maze of solicitors and false corporations. If James died, _he_ would be the only one inconvenienced — not MI6 or England.

Not that James considered death to be an acceptable outcome. But at least he had the freedom to be reckless. Reckless enough, in fact, to give his last option a shot, though he knew it wouldn’t work.

So he let his shoulders relax and made a show of failing to completely hide a sigh of relief. “And I assume you took steps to ensure we weren’t observed or followed?”

“I hope you’d trust your former Quartermaster to remember the most basic of forensic countermeasures when kidnapping an MI6 agent.” Q spoke carefully, watching James closely.

“Mmm, at the moment, yes,” James said calmly, resisting the urge to smile. He had no idea of Q’s sexuality. Best to keep things professional and fall back on seduction only as a last resort. “But things have changed at MI6 since your departure.”

“Oh?” Q asked, sounding supremely uninterested. He rested his chin on his knee and adjusted his grip on the gun. “Do tell, 007.”

“We’ve worked together before, and for what? A paycheck that’s a tenth what we could make in the private sector and a harsh note for violating regs written by bastards who haven’t been in the field in twenty years?” He let a hint of bitterness creep into his voice.

“Why do you think I got out?” The traitor’s eyes narrowed, and he pressed his lips together as he watched James.

“And apparently have been successful.” James raised an eyebrow, adding, “Successful enough to afford professional services.”

Q stared at him for a few seconds before his eyes widened as if he’d caught James’ meaning. “I work alone. On matters you wouldn’t have the slightest idea about.”

“‘Sometimes, a trigger needs to be pulled’,” James quoted. “And I’m very good at that — when properly compensated.”

“‘Or not pulled.’ Don’t test your luck with me, Bond.” Q twitched the gun as he moved to stand. “Sit up.”

James let out a grunt as he struggled to move. How long had he been out? His arm was numb, his back ached, and he was sure he had a bruise on his hip from lying on the thin carpet that covered the deck lounge. “This can go one of two ways,” he said, voice rough with what he hoped was effort and not fear. He didn’t need Q realising he’d rattled James with this surprise attack.

“Really? I can think of eleven.” The voice from above the table sounded amused but also quite bored.

He was still a stroppy little shit. Wonderful. James’ feet scuffed against the carpet as he finally got himself seated, head bent awkwardly under the table. “Either I stop you — and I _will_ find a way, you know — or you make me a better offer than the utter shit I’ve put up with at MI6 for the last year.”

“How about this: You tell me how to unlock your phone and safely contact 006, and I’ll think about letting you live.” A hand appeared from above the tabletop, holding James’ mobile phone.

“Try again,” James said bluntly, realising that the traitor wasn’t interested at all in recruiting a double agent. He was surprised at how disappointing that was, after how well they’d worked together —

_No._ He had to stop thinking that way. They hadn’t ‘worked together’ at all. Q had been Silva’s pawn the whole bloody time, and he’d encouraged James to bring M right into Silva’s trap.

Q leaned down until his face was showing again, his eyes and voice cold and hard. “I don’t think you understand. I need you to get to Trevelyan. That’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

James was willing to die for England if necessary, but he’d happily die to protect Alec. “Then we’re back to you killing me,” he said with a shrug, though it sent a spike of pain through his still-aching shoulder. “Just not on the carpet. It’s new.”

Q sighed and crouched down again, this time to sit on the floor with his legs crossed. “No, you see, there’s actually a way for this to work out where everyone lives. I’m not in this for the killing. But your precious Mallory has gone and mucked things up, and I need 006 to fix it.”

“Mallory?” James didn’t bother trying to hide his frown. “What’s _he_ got to do with this?”

“Well, inconveniently, he’s gone missing. Taken, no doubt, by the mercenaries that I’ve been selling intel to for the past year. They think they can go directly to the source and not have to pay me, I expect. Which is awkward in multiple ways.” Q smiled grimly.

Mallory, _taken?_ Alec hadn’t mentioned that — and he certainly wouldn’t have gone haring off to America with the director of MI6 in enemy hands. So it had happened in the last couple of days. Where didn’t matter, and the why was uncomfortably obvious. That left one relevant question: “Who are these mercenaries?”

“That’s none of your concern. All I need from you is a way to get 006 after them. Preferably _before_ Mallory has spilled his secrets.” Q held up his hand with the mobile resting flat on his palm.

James frowned, twisting his wrists as subtly as he could. “Mallory knew the risks before he took the job. _If_ he’s gone — _if_ I believe you — then MI6 is already moving to contain the damage.”

“It only happened yesterday. No one knows about it yet. Besides, who better on the job than our dear Alec?” Q smirked sardonically.

Jealousy made James go tense before it turned to anger. “He’s not _yours_.”

“Ah.” Q looked chagrined for a moment, then smiled as if regretful. “True. He’d never leave you for me. But he’d also never leave Mallory to the dogs. Give me the unlock code, Bond.”

“So you can lure him here and then kill us both? Where’s your proof Mallory’s been taken by anyone?”

“The proof is that I’m also a target of these mercenaries, and I’m willing to release all of Mallory’s secrets in order to make them worthless. Then neither of us is worth their time,” Q said matter-of-factly. He woke the phone to bring up the unlock screen. “But I’d rather not do that, as it puts me out of a job, which is why I need 006.”

_That_ put the situation in terrifying perspective. Yes, there were protocols to bury any secrets Mallory might reveal, but they were only theoretical. If Mallory spilled one-tenth of what he knew before he managed to die, England could be crippled. At the very least, the death toll would make Silva’s operation look like amateur hour.

James smiled sharply, hiding his apprehension. “He’s not for hire. Find another option.” 

“There _is_ no other option. I know how to blow up this boat, and I was thinking of making it look like an accident. You can be as noble and selfless as you like, sacrificing your life simply to spite me, but I have no qualms about planting false data trails that implicate 006 in the planning and execution of said ‘accident’. Make it look like he did it _for me,_ even. Drag both your names through the mud, and _then_ get him to do what I want. Why not just make this easier for everyone, James?” He shook the mobile in his hand impatiently.

How the _fuck_ did Q know Alec was James’ weak spot? Or was he guessing blindly, based on their preference for shared missions? James’ fists clenched behind his back, and he snapped, “Then kill me. Alec can take care of himself.”

“I do wish you’d listen more closely. In addition to failing your queen and country spectacularly by not coming to the aid of the head of MI6 and preventing the leak of state secrets, your friend’s life will be ruined in every way possible. Your Alec will not only be tried as a murderer and a traitor, but he’ll have to spend the rest of his life with the knowledge that he wasn’t given the chance to save yours.”

Memory flashed, hot blood running over James’ hand. His lover’s blood. He still had nightmares of how he’d failed to save Ronson — of that moment when their eyes met, when Ronson had realised that James would put the mission ahead of everything else.

He’d never really figured out if he’d loved Ronson. All the elements had been there: the sex, the shared experiences, the understanding. Alec, though...

Every person had their breaking point. James’ was Alec.

“One-nine-zero-eight,” he said quietly.

Q inhaled a lungful of air, then held it for a moment before saying, “Thank you, James. When this is all over...” He shook his head as he entered the code.

James stared at his next target, fixing this moment in his memory. When this was over, he would do everything in his power not just to kill Q but to make him pay for even threatening Alec that way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Wednesday, 21 August 2013**

There were worse fates in the world than this. There had to be, even if Alec couldn’t think of any of them at the moment. This wasn’t Hell — at least, not as described in any religion he’d ever heard of — because Hell didn’t have mechanical bulls. Though if Hell did have mechanical bulls, they’d surely have drunk British politicians trying and failing to ride them, because that was a special torment, both for rider and observer.

The latest would-be rider finally toppled off like the world’s most pathetic landslide, to the cheers and catcalls of the local executives and politicians who’d thought a night on the town would be fun. Alec stared at the pathetic heap wearing a hefty coat of straw over Savile Row’s finest and considered doing his duty as a bodyguard, but he wasn’t quite certain MI6 regs covered this situation. He wasn’t supposed to protect his assets from their own idiocy, was he?

Besides, he’d been ordered to ‘stop being such a bloody prig’ after his asset had ingested sufficient boilermakers to get him past his instinctive fear of having a Double O at his side. So technically, Alec was just following orders.

Still, best to be certain. He took out his mobile and snapped a couple of evidentiary pictures. If the bloody arse thought Double O’s were beyond a spot of blackmail... well, he’d learn better, once he sobered up. Hangovers were such a wonderful thing. Self-inflicted torture. Alec couldn’t even be brought up before a review committee for that sort of pain.

The mobile rang before he could put it back in his pocket. The display showed a phone number instead of a name, with the country code for Spain as its prefix. Alec grinned, thinking maybe he and James really were a little bit psychic.

He swiped the screen and put the phone to his ear, shouting over the country music song that sounded like every other bloody country music song, “James! Just in time! Did you want a mechanical bull for your birthday?”

“006. M has been kidnapped. I suggest you head home immediately.”

_That wasn’t James._

It took Alec a full second and a half to recognize the voice, but that wasn’t his fault. He’d only heard the former Quartermaster in recordings and security briefings, and the country music thundering in his ears was enough to have even a trained Double O wrong-footed.

“Really,” he drawled, shoving his way through the crowd surrounding the mechanical bull. His asset was upright, barely. “Why don’t you put James on the phone and we’ll discuss it?”

“He’s here. He’s safe.” There was a pause, and then Q’s voice was harder to hear — more echoing. “Say hello, Bond.”

 _“Pravda,”_ James said in a steady, calm tone.

Alec didn’t give himself the luxury of sighing in relief. Everything around him was a threat; one of the ex-Quartermaster’s spies could be here in the bar. _“Da,”_ he answered as he grabbed hold of his asset’s arm.

The idiot’s “Oi!” wasn’t loud enough to drown out the phone’s click — presumably Q switching off the speaker. Alec kept the phone to his ear and hauled his protesting, struggling asset to a clear spot between the tables just long enough to grip the idiot’s hand, digging in with one thumb.

His asset went a pale green colour as pain shot up his arm and into his chest. It didn’t sober him, but it sure as hell got his attention. Compliant, he allowed Alec to steer him towards the door.

Q’s too-calm voice came back on the line, making Alec shiver in the frigid air conditioning. “Just as I said. Now please take my suggestion at once. I’ll keep an eye on our mutual friend here until you confirm Mallory’s retrieval or elimination.”

Alec wanted to threaten Q — to say something that might ensure James’ safety — but that was civilian thinking. James was conscious and coherent enough to give Alec all the information he could in a single word, and that was all that mattered.

“Acknowledged,” he said before he rang off. He used his asset to shove his way through the crowd. The few glares they got all melted away with one look at Alec’s face. Alec pulled open the door and herded his asset out, ignoring the way the idiot protested and tried to swat at Alec. The car park was muggy and hot enough to make Alec’s temper fray just a little bit more. He steered his asset towards the secure SUV one-handed while dialing an emergency number with the other.

“Unsecure line. Go ahead,” answered a voice that was unfamiliar, though Alec wasn’t surprised. He tended to avoid actually going down to Q Branch to avoid lectures about turning in abused and incomplete kits after missions.

“Authorisation 006 tango alfa golf charlie victor papa,” he said grimly.

“Confirmed, 006.”

“Trace all activity and geolocate,” he said before giving the phone number of James’ temporary mobile. “Priority one.”

“Sir,” the techie said, a hint of nervousness creeping into his otherwise professional tone, “all commands have been superseded by the Chief of Staff, including —”

“You tell Tanner this _is_ his bloody priority one,” Alec snapped, taking his anger out on his asset, who stumbled at the hard shove. “Understand?”

The techie waited a heartbeat before saying, “Confirmed, 006. Priority one tasking initiated.”

“I also need transport back to London from Houston, Texas. Again, priority one. Understand?” he asked sharply.

“Yes, sir. Transport to London from your current location. We’ll text you the details.”

“Good” — Alec had no idea who or what the techie was — “nerd. Trevelyan out.”

In the moment of distraction, his asset pulled free and demanded, “What the _hell_ do you —”

“No time for this,” Alec said, dropping the phone back into his pocket. Then he clenched his fist and punched his asset in the gut hard enough to double the man over. At least a litre of beer and miscellaneous fluids made their abrupt reappearance, though Alec had already sidestepped. Busy with vomiting, the asset didn’t have the concentration to put up any sort of a fuss as Alec unlocked the SUV and shoved him into the back seat. He landed in the footwell rather than on the cushion, but that was all right by Alec. He’d be up front, breaking speed laws to get back to the consulate. He had a plane to catch.

 

~~~

 

**Thursday, 22 August 2013**

_Pravda,_ James thought as Q got up and walked forward, towards the pilot’s seat at the stairs down to the salon. _Pravda_ had been the old Communist state news service, though it still existed. The meaning, though, was something that James and Alec had discussed many times over the decades. Truth was relative. Trust but verify. Nothing is what it seems at face value.

Not that James _actually_ needed to warn Alec to be on his guard, but still... Best to make sure that Mallory really had been captured. If so, Alec would take steps. And if not... well, he would sweep down on the boat like the bloody wrath of God, and Q would be lucky if all that was left of him was a smouldering pile of ash afterwards.

James tried to eavesdrop, but the slap of waves against the hull turned Q’s low voice into a muted hum. The conversation was calm — reassuring, perhaps — which told James that Q had a partner. Otherwise, he would’ve been giving orders.

The call lasted only a few minutes before Q rang off and stepped back into James’ line of sight. Then he knelt down and sat back on his heels, saying, “Right. Now what? You’re my collateral until Mallory is safely out of the way, so either get comfortable or start behaving yourself.”

“ _If_ Mallory really is gone, then you don’t need collateral,” James said evenly. “MI6 will exhaust every resource to retrieve or eliminate him, as you well know. So you can just get the hell off my boat and go back to whatever hole you’ve been hiding in these last ten months, and let me get on with my holiday.”

“Honestly, I’d love to, but did you miss the part where my life is endangered, too? Until the mission is complete I won’t be safe. Unless you make sure that I am.” Q smiled as if apologetic, but his eyes were flat and expressionless. “If you don’t want all of MI6’s secrets leaked, you’ll take good care of me right here, where no one knows I am.”

James stared at Q, a sinking feeling in his gut. A failsafe. It had to be a failsafe. Behind his back, his fists clenched. He desperately wanted to take the chance that Q was lying, but he couldn’t risk it. The systems analysts were still picking apart the threads of Q’s defection, and they had no idea the extent of information he’d stolen. Maybe it was nothing more than last year’s parking pass codes. Maybe it was the details of every undercover operative, identical to what Silva had stolen. Or maybe it was just the backstopping for all of Alec’s various cover identities.

Whatever the case, James couldn’t risk it. “When this is over, you know I’ll find you,” he said softly. “I’ll make you regret ever being born.”

“Too late.” Q stood quickly, hiding all but his legs from view. “I’ve already found you. If you think I’m letting you go, you’re a fool.”

James closed his eyes and tried to stretch his back as best he could. It was still dark but his body was aching from too much time spent chained up under the table. He needed to stand up and stretch — and to make sure Q hadn’t abused the boat any more than was necessary. Bad enough he’d hacked or broken the GPS alarm that would’ve gone off when they’d left the harbour. Even the most operator-friendly boat wasn’t a toy.

Gritting his teeth against the feel of defeat, he said, “I’ll keep you safe. Unlock the bloody cuffs.”

“‘Safe’ means being able to move freely and think clearly. If you can’t give your word that you won’t try to incapacitate me in any way, you’ll stay right there until I’ve had a shower and sleep.” The gun, nearly forgotten in Q’s hand until now, inched up to point towards James’ torso.

His word? James had to bite back a sharp laugh at the sudden unprofessional turn. Q had betrayed MI6, attacked James, hijacked his boat — and his holiday — then threatened Alec, and he wanted James to _promise to be nice?_

The crack in Q’s professional facade gave James hope. He nodded, glad the low table kept him from looking Q full in the face. “I said I’ll keep you safe. You have my word. You can have your shower,” he said, trying to find a hint of suggestiveness inside himself, though he failed. He was more interested in breaking Q’s neck than showing him how to operate the controls in either the forward or aft shower. But he had to try, so he added, “You can even have the master cabin, aft of the salon.”

“Thank you.” Q’s voice sounded polite but wary. There was a momentary pause; then James heard the sound of something heavy being set on the table above him. A moment later Q crawled under the table and moved to get behind James. “Turn a bit so I can reach.”

James let out a frustrated breath and ducked his head lower. With his legs bound and hands held behind the support pole in rigid cuffs, there was only so much he could move. “You couldn’t have picked a more civilised way to reintroduce yourself?” he complained.

“You expected me to have you over for tea?” Q’s fingers were cold as they held James’ arm still to unlock a cuff.

“I loathe tea,” James said before he remembered Q’s ever-present mug of tea down in Q Branch. He permitted himself a vicious grin, knowing Q wouldn’t see it, and added, “There isn’t a single leaf of the stuff onboard, unless you brought it.”

“Bugger. What’s the point of holding a countryman hostage if not for his stash of tea?” Q’s voice was sharp with humour. “Here, I’m only undoing this to get your arms from around the pole. The cuff goes back on when your hands are in front of you, with no fuss. All right?”

“Absolutely not,” James said sharply. “We’re on a bloody _boat_. One strong wave, and I’m not drowning so you can have peace of mind. Besides, I have to put out the anchors before we drift into a fucking shipping lane.”

Q’s hands stilled on the cuffs. “It’s only until I’ve slept. Then I’ll let you free.”

The thought of being helpless for _another_ seven or eight hours, on top of however long it had already been, was enough to make James cringe. “This isn’t a hotel. We could both die, if we’re not careful, and they’d never find our bodies. If you want me to keep you safe, then I _have to_ pilot this boat. And for that, I need my hands free.”

There was what felt like an interminable pause before James heard the click of the lock and Q said, “All right. But if you go for the gun I _will_ —”

“Keep your bloody threats,” James snapped. “I said I’ll keep you safe, but I can’t do that, either, if I’m bound. Make up your damned mind.”

The second cuff fell open with a _click_. Q backed away from him, saying, “You’re not, so quit grousing.”

James brought his hands around in front of his body, clenching and unclenching his fists to get his blood flowing. His right wrist was bruised near the bone, and a line of fire stretched from fingertips to shoulder, but he wasn’t going to die. That was all that mattered.

He hunched down even more so he could reach his ankles, which were bound not with cuffs or rope but with a pair of familiar dark brown boot laces. Even with socks as padding, they’d dug deeply into his ankles. His fingers were too clumsy for him to undo the knots that Q had pulled tight, and he finally stuck out a hand, saying, “My knife.”

“You’re joking.” Q got out from under the table and stood up again. “Your hands will work —”

“We’re _on a boat_ ,” James said, bracing against the carpet so he could start to turn around. If nothing else, he was sick of looking at the underside of the damned bench seats. “We _both_ need to be carrying knives, because of generations of bloody idiot fishermen cutting their lines. Or would you rather go overboard, get tangled, and drown a foot below the surface? Christ, do you _actually_ know what you’re doing here?” It was a ridiculous precaution — all those tangled lines were down at the bottom, presenting a hazard to deep divers, but maybe Q didn’t know that.

“I don’t care where the fuck we are, Bond. I’m not handing you a god damned _knife._ Now get over yourself and figure out some other way of untying your boot laces while I go take a bloody shower.” Q snatched the Walther off the table and stalked for the stairs below.

Seething, James watched Q disappear down the stairs into the salon, where he slammed the door. _Remember the failsafe_ , James told himself as he took a few deep breaths, pushing past the anger and pain. It would take too long to fumble through the knots that had pulled tight around his ankles. Instead, he twisted around and used his elbows to pull himself across the carpet and out into the open.

He had to lie there for a few seconds until his spine unknotted itself. Then he forced himself to sit upright so he could reach for the bar. Q hadn’t left him a knife, but there was more than enough glass at hand. And by the sound of rumbling below, Q was actually taking a shower, giving James the freedom to do as he pleased.

He wrapped a ridiculously expensive wine glass in a tea towel and broke it into shards that were sharp enough to cut through the boot laces. He was tempted to wrap some of the shards and hide them in his pockets, but with the way his luck was going, he’d end up slicing himself open by bending the wrong way. Instead, he carefully binned the shards, then went forward, to the cockpit. The pilot’s bench was a two-seater that, like the lounge benches, could be converted into extra sleeping space and had storage underneath. There were life vests under one seat; under the other, James had a full emergency toolkit, including a flare gun and a utility knife meant for cutting the thick anchor rodes in case of emergency.

He pocketed the utility knife, though it was large enough that Q would probably notice it, even with his shirt untucked. The flare gun was tempting, but using it might well set the boat aflame. And if James managed to survive, he was bloody well going to have his holiday on this damned boat. He’d rather not have it drydocked for repairs.

Bad enough he’d have to have the carpet replaced, once he finally got the chance to cut Q’s throat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thursday, 22 August 2013**

Even before joining the Royal Navy, James had learned to respect the sea. When it came to fuel and water, he planned conservatively and lived frugally. He preferred to top off his tanks whenever possible on the theory that he might stumble upon an enemy at port and need to run. He’d never expected to have that enemy onboard.

But he was adaptable. He considered the length of Q’s shower — and the length of his own, once he decided to let his guard down long enough to ease the aches in his body — and halved the food he’d brought onboard, and he came to the conclusion that he needed to resupply immediately.

Besides, he needed another bloody phone. And possibly a chiropractor.

So he returned to the harbour where he’d planned to spend the night, until Q had decided otherwise, and eased the boat next to the refuelling dock. He’d already established a reputation as a friendly, easygoing guest, and while it wasn’t customary to tip for refuelling or emptying the waste tank, he’d paid generously for extra services. He was tempted to ask for some of those extras now — a quick run to the nearest twenty-four-hour store for a replacement mobile — but it was better to wait until he could go himself. If the delivery came while Q was out and about, he’d just confiscate that phone as well.

Instead, when it was time to settle the bill, he felt for his wallet, only to find his pockets empty, except for the knife. Right. He’d forgotten that Q had robbed him as well as disarming him. Irritation shot through him, and he apologised to the attendant with a smile, saying, “One moment. My wallet’s below.”

He climbed back aboard and up to the lounge deck, then went to the salon below. For safety reasons, only the main salon door locked, so he was surprised when the aft cabin door resisted his efforts to push it open. Had Q blocked the bloody door?

 _Fucking idiot,_ he thought, banging his fist on the door. “I need my wallet!” he snapped, thinking that maybe he should drag Q out and cuff _him_ to the damned table for his own safety.

“No, you don’t.” The voice was very quiet but very cold. “What are we doing in harbour?”

James closed his eyes for a moment, reining in his temper. “Open the door and give me my wallet before I decide that a Spanish jail cell is preferable to sharing my boat with you.”

“If you kill me, all of MI6’s secure files will get dumped onto the internet.” There was the sound of something moving against the door in multiple places, and then Q’s voice came again. “Slowly, or I’ll shoot.”

James shoved the door open, saying, “Then _you’ll_ be in jail, and I won’t give a damn. Now give me back my wallet.”

Q took his left hand off the gun pointed at James’ head, slipped it into his pocket, and withdrew a wad of Euros. He tossed them onto the unmade bed, then stepped back. “Go pay and then leave the harbour.”

“Save the cash for emergencies,” James said, allowing a hint of scorn to come into his voice. Might as well establish which of them was the expert in operational security — even if Q had impossibly managed to evade MI6’s hunting teams for all these months. “I’ve already used the card here a dozen times, so you’re not compromising any new intel. Even if that’s how _you_ found me, there’s no sense in pretending. Hand it over.”

“Of course it was. And having another transaction on the card for today will let them know you’re _still here._ Use the cash; there’s enough. This _is_ an emergency.” Q still had the gun pointed directly at James’ head.

Irritation finally won out over any sense of caution or self-preservation — admittedly never a strong trait for any Double O. James swept into the room, already thinking of how he’d grab the Walther at the top, locking the slide to keep the weapon from firing. A twist to force Q to let go or risk breaking his trigger finger. A quick jab to slam the butt into Q’s face or at least make him flinch back —

But because he was entirely focused on the Walther, he was unprepared for the way Q’s _left_ hand came up in a low punch at his gut, and every muscle in his body locked up tight under a wave of agony so hot that it felt like burning ice.

He hit the deck with bruising force, teeth clicking together, drawing blood from his tongue. He tried to fight through the pain, to control his body, but every muscle was jumping and convulsing. An eternity passed before he realized the bloody traitor had hit him with a sodding stun gun — on its highest setting, no less.

He was still on the floor when the boat’s engines roared to life. He had no idea when Q had left the room, much less what the hell was happening in the cockpit. He barely managed to get up to all fours, then up onto the bed, before he had to collapse again from the lingering pain. Just the scrape of his shirt over his abdomen felt like he was being stabbed with a bloody spear, making every breath torture. And after a night of being bound and unconscious, the convulsive clenching of his muscles made his joints feel as if they were filled with broken glass.

This changed everything. He’d underestimated the former Quartermaster for the last time, but Q had made a mistake of his own. Threatening MI6 had roused James’ anger, but nothing like this. Now, Q had made this personal, and James would make him pay.

 

~~~

 

Ten hours on a plane, even an otherwise empty charter flight, did nothing for appearances, not that Alec cared. He went from the airport straight to headquarters, not bothering to change out of the suit that still had straw clinging to the trousers. For the first time in recorded history, he made Medical his first stop so he could terrorise them into giving him something to help him stay awake. They’d come up with alternatives to amphetamines, which was the only reason he wasn’t buzzing by the time he threw open the outer door to the executive offices.

Like the rest of MI6, Moneypenny was on high alert. Alec stared at the gun in her hand, unfazed, and said, “Tanner.”

“You’re meant to be in Houston,” she accused.

“The techie didn’t tell anyone? I came home,” he said, heading into the office. The glass door to Tanner’s office showed only darkness beyond, which meant he’d taken over as temporary head of MI6. The padded vault-style airlock was too complex for even a Double O to quickly crack, so he said, “Ring me in.”

Her sigh was eloquent. She put down her gun with a clatter, then buzzed the intercom to M’s office. “006 to see you, sir.”

Tanner answered, “006? Good. Send him in.”

She released the intercom, then unlocked the outer airlock door. “Should I even ask how you know?”

“Probably not,” Alec said, giving her an automatic smile as he headed inside.

The outer door swung closed and latched. A few seconds later, the inner door unlocked and opened to reveal M’s civilised office, full of antiques and works of art that he’d collected over the years and now fit seamlessly with the responsibilities of running the world’s premier espionage organisation. Tanner looked surprisingly comfortable and competent behind the massive desk.

“Trevelyan. Come in. Sit down. Everything all right?” Tanner frowned as if concerned. He stood and held out his hand, diverting Alec from the bar so he could play at being polite instead.

“Everything’s rubbish, actually. If you get a stroppy call from the Houston consulate, I’m not available,” Alec said, studying Tanner closely. Dark circles under his eyes, wrinkled shirt, tie undone by a good half-inch. “Pull an all-nighter?”

“Do you doubt it? I assume you’ve heard, or you wouldn’t have dropped your diplomatic mission so abruptly. Was assaulting the ambassador necessary?” One of Tanner’s eyebrows raised sceptically.

“One, country music. Two, mechanical bull. Trust me. I did international relations a favour,” Alec said, eyeing the bar. He had no idea what time it was, either locally or physically, but having a broken circadian clock was nothing new. “Is it too early to start drinking?”

“I think it’s too _late_ for me, but help yourself.” Tanner waved him towards the bar, then amended his statement. “Moderation, please. I need you on this as soon as possible.”

Alec actually hesitated, then took the guest seat across the desk instead of pouring that drink. “First, tell me if I’m going to Spain to rescue James’ arse or if you’ve found me a local target.”

“James?” Another frown from Tanner. It looked like he’d done little else for the past day. “Is _that_ what the report on the Spanish mobile was about? We aren’t ruling out the possibility that M is somewhere on the continent, but I wouldn’t have thought Spain was a contender. What’s Bond doing?”

“Bradshaw apparently decided to take him hostage.”

“What? Our defector? How do you know this?” Tanner turned to M’s computer and started clicking through files.

“He rang me from James’ mobile with the usual dramatic threats. Told me to rescue Mallory.” Alec’s eyes narrowed. “James told me to verify, so I need to know _everything_ , right the fuck now.”

“I’ve given you access to the file on M’s disappearance. An anonymous alert made us aware of the kidnapping, and we’ve been following up with everything we’ve got. It seems to be cyber-terrorists looking to capitalise on his wealth of knowledge of the workings of government organisations.” Tanner paused to read something on his screen, then looked closely at Alec. “You say Bond and Bradshaw are together, and _he_ knew about M?”

“So it seems. I figured I’d head down there, retrieve James, and then go find Mallory with his help. We’ll bring back some of the larger pieces of Bradshaw for your trophy wall, if you’d like.”

“No, that won’t do.” Tanner looked back at his screen, the look of concern on his face bordering on alarmed. “We need Bradshaw in one piece. Not just physically whole but mentally as well. He has information we need. And I need you on M’s trail immediately.”

 _Bugger that,_ Alec thought with a smile, already plotting the fastest way to get to Spain, after a brief stop down in Q Branch. “You’re certain you want Mallory back? This is a much nicer office than yours.”

“You know I do. His stellar record aside, it’s a security breach we can’t afford. And, dammit.” Tanner pushed his mouse away in frustration. “I can’t get hold of Bond when he’s on holiday, but I know you can.”

Alec dropped his mobile on the desk. The number to James’ burner phone was already onscreen. “He’s not going to be happy about keeping Bradshaw alive.” He spun the mobile around and slid it across the desk, at least as far as the leather-edged green blotter.

Tanner paused for a moment and looked at Alec curiously. “All right. Thank you.” He leaned over the phone and pressed _call,_ then turned on the speaker.

 

~~~

 

A too-brief shower and nap in a proper bed went a long way towards restoring James’ physical well-being, though his temper still burned cold under the surface. Q had no idea of the danger he was in, provoking a Double O with a bloody stun gun. Case in point: he _didn’t_ go running when James walked out into the salon. He just sat at the dining table in front of a sleek MacBook, sipping from a mug. James’ Walther lay on the table just inches from Q’s right hand.

James stared at him for the handful of seconds it took to cross to the galley, then turned and started preparing food. For one. He’d missed too many meals, and the lingering effects of the tranquiliser and electric shock had his stomach in knots. If Q was hungry, he could bloody well make his own food or starve. James had bought provisions for one, not two, and if Q was going to be stubborn about resupplying, that wasn’t James’ damned concern.

“There’s coffee.” Q’s voice was polite but distant.

 _Obviously,_ James thought, letting the flash of irritation come and go. Did Q think he’d missed the pot, still three-quarters full? Or was he playing at being polite? As if that would help.

“And groceries for one,” James said bluntly. “I hope you brought your own fishing rod.”

“I’ll be fine for today. We aren’t far offshore.” Q paused for a moment and James heard the sound of his laptop thudding closed. “I’d apologise for the fifteen million volts, but it was that or a bullet. And I won’t make a habit of using it unless you continue to attack me.”

For a single instant, all the potential weapons in reach flashed through James’ mind: the pot of hot coffee, the knives on the magnetic rack under the cupboard, the plates and glasses, the cutlery drawer. He closed his eyes, then went back to laying out ingredients for garlic chicken with sun-dried tomatoes. He needed something more substantial than an omelette.

“Use it again, and I may choose to ‘forget’ whatever intel you have to use against MI6,” he said calmly as he took down a knife. The weight of it felt good in his hand — not fighting-knife good, but he’d killed more than once using kitchen utensils.

“That would be decidedly inconvenient for everyone involved,” Q mused. “It was the natural consequence of your own actions, so I would suggest thinking hard before resorting to violence. This doesn’t have to be an antagonistic relationship, after all.”

“There _is_ no relationship,” James said, striving for a conversational tone. He was proud that he didn’t crack the cutting board as he smashed apart a garlic clove with the flat of the knife. “You’re so bloody confident you have all the answers, you’re welcome to keep yourself safe without my assistance.”

“And leave you to decide hunting me down is more important than helping find Mallory? No. Believe me, I may not have all the answers, but I’ve thought this through a dozen times over, and this is the best outcome, no matter how bloody difficult you make it.” A hint of sadness tinged Q’s voice as he added, “We both want the same thing.”

James smiled humourlessly as he set a frying pan on the hob. “Hardly. You have this misguided idea that you can come to me for protection and then defy me on a whim. That’s clear enough for me. Whether you live or die is no concern of mine.” He turned enough to look back, smile widening a notch. “I might even hold the bloody door open when they come for you.”

“ _Defy_ you? Because I didn’t want you to use a traceable form of payment? It’s not me who’s misguided, 007. And whether I live or die is just as crucial as whether Mallory can keep his mouth shut. If you want a job to go back to — if you want a working government when you return —” Q broke off and shook his head. His voice was calmer when he continued, “This isn’t my game we’re playing. I wish it was, honestly, but I promise you it wasn’t my intention we’d end up here. I’m just the lynchpin.”

“That _traceable_ form of payment would have encouraged your pursuers to look elsewhere — convinced them you weren’t onboard, because if you were, we would have done _precisely as you did_ : paid in cash, and then run for open water. If anyone was watching the harbour, you’ve just painted a bloody target on this ship by breaking a routine I’d established over the last few days.” James grinned, nasty and vicious, before he went back to preparing his dinner. “Well done, Bradshaw.”

The traitor sighed. “Well done, _you,_ for forcing that situation to occur by acting like an imperious arse. Now it’s your job to keep me from dying when they come for us. Enjoying your holiday, yet?” He picked up his computer and the gun and stood, but before he could take more than two steps, a familiar ringtone sounded.

James’ burner mobile.

 

~~~

 

“006? So nice of you to trouble yourself. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Tanner went wide-eyed with surprise at hearing the once-familiar voice. Alec’s fingers dug into the armrests of his chair. Not bothering to hide the cold, deadly threat in his voice, he said, “Put James on the phone. Now.”

“Stay back, 007.” The click and echo of earlier came just before the traitor continued, “You’re on speaker, agent.”

“James?” Alec asked, leaning forward.

 _“Tunguska,”_ James answered flatly, and it was Alec’s turn to go a bit wide-eyed. He’d expected anger, but not a promise of meteor-impact-level destruction. What the _hell_ had Bradshaw done to piss him off so completely?

“Bond?” Tanner spoke up before Alec could think of a response. “I’m glad to hear both of you are all right. Sorry about your holiday.”

“We’ll discuss it,” James threatened.

Alec stood up, fully prepared to leave right that moment, only to have Tanner frantically wave him back down into the chair. Frowning, Alec asked, “Anything else you want to discuss, James?” The relevant question — _or can I leave now?_ — went unsaid.

“If you could start the paperwork for a replacement boat, that’d be helpful,” James said casually, though his voice was still frosty with anger. “Bradshaw’s already made her a target, so I’ll be leaving shortly.”

“No, you won’t.” Tanner’s voice was steely but Alec swore his hand was shaking. “Not without your asset, 007.”

“What ‘asset’?” Alec asked, wrong-footed. Had he missed something? Had James been trying to seduce some important foreign national when Bradshaw had charged back onto the scene?

Tanner looked sternly at Alec, saying, “Your new brief is to treat Bradshaw as your asset. Confirm, 007.”

“Bugger that,” James spat back, real anger in his voice. “If you want him that badly, I’ll bring you his head.”

“Absolutely not.” Tanner took a deep breath and clutched the edge of the desk. “He has intelligence we require. I need him brought back unharmed.”

“You’re asking a great deal,” James warned. “And technically I’m on holiday.”

 _“Unharmed,”_ Tanner ordered. “Keep him with you for the time being, and we’ll interrogate him here, once this is all over. Confirm, Bond.”

Alec stared from Tanner to the phone and back again. Then he stabbed one finger against the mute button and demanded, “What the bleeding hell?” over James’ “And I say again, ‘bugger that’, Tanner.”

“Need to know, 006,” Tanner snapped back. “We need Mallory _and_ Bradshaw safely retrieved and brought in.” He nodded for Alec to unmute the phone.

Alec stared at him for a heartbeat — long enough for the unspoken warning to be clear. If Tanner was wrong and this cost James anything, Alec would make him pay tenfold. Tanner didn’t flinch, which meant he was either serious or an idiot. And Alec knew he wasn’t an idiot.

Alec hit mute again and said, “James.”

“No,” James answered at once.

Alec took a deep breath, staring into Tanner’s eyes. Tanner nodded, and Alec said, “Can you avoid breaking off anything important?”

“ _Unharmed,_ 007,” Tanner said.

“If you want this bastard back so badly, then tell him to listen to me,” James said grudgingly.

Tanner sighed as quietly as he could. “Adam?”

Bradshaw had the gall to say, “Q, please. I’m no longer Adam Bradshaw.”

Tanner’s voice was calm and had lost its commanding edge. “Q, then. You’re under MI6’s care now, all right?”

“Yes, all right.” There was a slight pause before Bradshaw continued, “I appreciate the assurance that I won’t be harmed.”

“Hand over my gun,” James said flatly. “And that bloody TASER.”

“It’s a stun gun, and it’s in my cabin. But —”

A loud clatter — metal against wood — made Tanner flinch. Alec stared intently at the phone as if he could see what was happening on the other end. The burner phone was too cheap to pick up all the sounds, but he swore he heard a soft grunt.

Then, after another clatter, the audio quality changed from speakerphone to regular, and James asked, “Anything else you want to tell me, Tanner?”

“Take _care_ of him, Bond. I need him intact.”

“Safe as houses,” James said cheerfully. Alec knew that tone, and he breathed easier now that James apparently had a weapon in hand.

“006, I want you going after M.” Tanner looked up at Alec, jaw set as though waiting for a protest.

“Alec?” James asked.

“I’ll call you when I know more,” Alec promised.

“Right. I’m going dark. I’ll call with a new secure number when I can.” James rang off, and Alec leaned back in his chair, looking across the desk at Tanner, who looked a bit dazed.

“He won’t kill Bradshaw, will he? Is he safe? Or do I have to send someone out there?”

Alec shrugged. “You tasked a Double O with protecting a traitor as an asset, and now you’re having second thoughts? This isn’t a game, Tanner.”

“Of course it’s not a game, 006. Don’t patronise me.” Tanner took a deep breath before continuing, “I’m not having second thoughts about keeping the traitor safe. I’m unsure whether 007 is up to the task.”

“I’m guessing Bradshaw took extraordinary steps to really piss him off,” Alec admitted, “but if he’s been clever enough to evade us for the last ten months, he can probably figure out how to not make the situation worse.”

Tanner’s eyebrows raised. “Let’s hope so. It’s vitally important that he makes it out of this alive.”

“Not a problem,” Alec said, thinking that ‘alive’ had a whole lot of wiggle room. He stood and said, “I’ll go fetch Mallory. Want me to have someone bring you coffee? Or are you going to have a nap before Medical comes after you? You really do look like shit, mate.”

“I need to consider some new developments here before I sleep for a few hours.” Tanner smiled wanly. “Don’t forget to stop by Q Branch so they can outfit you properly.”

“Definitely. And, ah, my diplo mission. You’ll take care of the paperwork, won’t you?” Alec said as he headed for the door. It opened automatically from the inside, thanks to a sensor in the ceiling.

Tanner turned back to his computer and said vaguely, “Eve’s taking care of things on that end. Get her a gift in thanks.”

“Consider it done,” Alec promised. Eve wasn’t a flowers-and-chocolates type of person, but he’d heard a rumour that she appreciated good vodka, and Alec had contacts. Once he found his pet techie down in Q Branch and got the intel from James’ phone, he could set the techie on dealing with import/export regs. Hopefully, the vodka would show up right around the same time as Mallory, James, and their most wanted traitor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thursday, 22 August 2013**

James had never felt any particular affection for the Walther until he had it in his hand once more. It was amazing how the cool, slight weight of the weapon — small by most standards — could calm his heartbeat and soothe his nerves. The irritation and lingering pain in his body vanished, and when he levelled the sights at Q, his hand didn’t tremble in the slightest.

He set the mobile on the dining table and smiled. “Empty your pockets.”

Q silently reached into his pockets and took out a wad of cash, a handful of coins, and a handkerchief. He set everything on the table and looked calmly at James, who gestured towards the forward cabin.

“Move. Slowly.”

Q preceded him into the cabin, then turned around to face him, still impassive and silent. There wasn’t room for both of them to stand comfortably, with the bed taking up most of the bow, but James only needed to get to the narrow wardrobe in the entryway. He slid open the folding door one-handed and started feeling through the clothes he’d hung days ago. He’d long since established an order for putting clothes away in unfamiliar hotels, and he could find what he was looking for by touch alone.

“Strip. Drop your clothes there, on the corner of the bed,” he said, twitching the gun to point.

Moving slowly and deliberately, Q did as he was bade. As he undressed, James took note of the two identifying marks listed in his file. The first was a scar low on his abdomen that was whitened with age and could have been from an appendectomy. Then there was a small black tattoo on his chest of what looked like the logo from the cover of the London A to Z street atlas. He didn’t pause when he got down to his pants, but threw them onto the pile along with his shirt and trousers.

“Move away,” James said as he found his single pair of tracksuit bottoms hanging to the far left. “Do I need to do a cavity search?”

“You don’t _need_ to do any of this. But if you’re asking whether you’ll find anything, the answer is no.” Q’s voice was calm and measured, without a trace of resentment. At least they could be professional about this. As it was, James didn’t need the reminder of how he once would’ve made every effort to get Q naked in his bedroom.

Instead of answering, he pulled the bottoms off the hanger and tossed them to Q. As Q dressed, James took down the first T-shirt he found, then hesitated when he saw which one he’d picked. It was a rich green, the exact colour of Alec’s eyes, which was why James had bought it. But it would be notable if he put it back to get another one, so he threw it at Q, then slid the closet door back into place.

“When do you need to check in with your data failsafe?” he asked as Q pulled on the shirt.

When Q’s head popped into view, he was frowning. “Every four or so hours. I checked in while you were sleeping.”

James nodded, taking a step to put himself between Q and his former clothes. “Back out into the salon. Don’t touch the laptop. If you behave yourself, I’ll leave you unbound for your own safety. If not, I’ll have you in cuffs and depend on a life vest to keep you alive.”

As Q headed out of the room, he asked, “And what does behaving myself look like, exactly?”

“You don’t touch anything without permission. You don’t leave my sight without permission. You do exactly as I say, at all times.” James was tempted to add something about full disclosure, but he knew better. Q wouldn’t give up any information without severe incentive, and that incentive wouldn’t leave him intact enough for Tanner’s purposes. Interrogation could wait until they were back on home soil.

Q nodded as he sat at the table near his computer and put his hands in his lap. His head was downcast, but he raised his eyes to James and said, “Yes, sir.”

The arousal that shot through James at those words had no place in his life right now. Mentally telling himself _“No!”_ he swiped the laptop and mobile off the table and brought them to the galley, where he’d never made any damned progress in cooking. The frying pan was overheated, so he snapped off the hob and tried to find somewhere safe to put the laptop. The ingredients to his brunch were all over the counter. And now that Q was actually _his_ responsibility, brunch for two was his problem as well.

It took a few seconds — and more than a few deep breaths — before he could say, “We’re leaving the boat. If you left any sort of trail, we won’t be able to get away from surveillance without taking too many risks. Do you have anything with you that will compromise MI6 or that you need to survive?”

“I have a couple things stowed in the cabin,” Q gestured aft, his eyes wide. “Are we leaving right now?”

“I want us off the boat by this afternoon,” James said, already thinking of where to go. He wasn’t about to abandon the boat to the waves — not with how bloody tight-fisted MI6 was with compensation for personal loss — which meant he needed a secure harbour, preferably one where he could hire a crew to get the _Olivia May_ back to England. First, though, he needed somewhere private where he could go to ground for a couple of days, at least long enough to physically recover from the last twelve hours.

“All right,” Q said, quietly. “Thank you, Bond. I know this hasn’t been easy.”

The calm acceptance and lack of argument soothed James’ temper even more. He set the Walther down and pried off the back of the mobile so he could get at the battery. He’d throw the battery and phone overboard later; for now, having the battery out meant the phone couldn’t be tracked. One more precaution in place. It wasn’t enough, but it was all he could do right now. He needed food and time to think.

“Stay exactly where you are,” he said, turning back to the food he’d been preparing. “I’ll make us something to eat.”

“Whatever you like.”

 

~~~

 

According to Alec’s pet techie, the usage record for James’ burner mobile showed multiple extended calls to an innocuous, somewhat upscale townhome in Notting Hill. Nothing about the row of flats and townhomes particularly screamed ‘criminal’ to Alec, but what the hell did he know? This was his first sanctioned domestic operation.

Well, semi-sanctioned. Or not actually _sanctioned_ , except in the “Do whatever it takes to retrieve Mallory” way. Tanner didn’t need to know that Alec’s priority was to track the Mallory abduction through Bradshaw.

And by the time he broke into the building down the street, he didn’t give a rat’s arse about justification. London in August was bloody hot, and the air was thick with rain that hadn’t bothered to actually start falling. It was marginally cooler inside, which was all that mattered.

It was child’s play for him to access the roof unseen. The whole block had more than its usual share of CCTV cameras, which had been enough to tell Alec he was in the right place. And the roof of his target building had three separate air conditioning units, promising not just a satisfactory end to his hunt but a nice cool break from the oppressive heat.

He made his way from building to building without trying to be sneaky. Anyone paying attention would come up with their own justification — building inspector, ambitious general contractor, and so on. And most sane people in this neighbourhood were either at work or inside, out of the bloody heat.

The bulletproof vest might have been a mistake. He normally wore one when he expected to get shot at — meaning such precautions had saved him a half-dozen times or more — but this was recon, not a hit. But he was James’ only reliable backup, so he wore not only the vest but the bloody strike plate, which meant his core temperature was probably rising at an unhealthy rate, making it that much more critical for him to break in through the attic.

Naturally, there was an alarm on the attic entry, requiring him to waste ten precious minutes with a quick bit of rewiring. He dropped down into a dark, low space that was even muggier than the outside air, leaving him breathless. After he eased the trapdoor shut, he turned on a torch with a red lens and a tiny beam, then began to follow the alarm wiring.

Ideally, he would’ve broken in through the basement, so he could cut the power to the building, but even he would’ve had a hard time evading that many cameras without drawing suspicion. Now, all he could do was search his way down the building, floor by floor, and hope he didn’t trip any silent sensors.

Or noisy ones, for that matter. Loud music filtered up through the insulated attic floor. Heavy bass, strong beat, melodic vocals. That was a pleasant surprise. Alec couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent soundtrack for a mission.

Feeling more optimistic, he made his way towards an area cleared of insulation to make room for a folding stair-ladder. Like the roof entrance, this trapdoor was alarmed, but this time it was easier for him to disable. He had to stop himself from humming along to the music as he attached new wires, then cut the sensors out of the loop. Then, holding the ladder in place, he opened the trapdoor just enough to lower himself into bright light and blissfully icy air.

 _Paradise,_ he thought happily. He might even let his target live after the interrogation, just for being so considerate. Or maybe that sentiment was a side-effect of the drugs Medical had given him.

The attic let out into a foyer at the top of a winding stairwell with a dark wood banister. The walls were a crisp white that lacked handprints or smudges. Probably a private residence — or a very expensive managed property. There was only one door, so Alec set to work with his lockpicks. Two deadbolts, a doorknob lock, and another alarm felt a little like overkill for an inside door, but James had more security on his flat, so maybe this was normal? For Alec, it meant a few minutes of effort before he eased the door open.

A black-clad shadow swept past Alec’s field of view, running right-to-left, just two metres out of reach. Alec drew his gun and pursued, taking the corner as his finger brushed against the trigger. The shadow — a few inches shorter than Alec, slender, with oversized black clothes and black hair like a hedgehog’s spikes — hit the far end of an open kitchen and twisted, bringing one hand up.

Alec’s finger twitched, depressing the trigger just enough for him to feel pressure, before he recognised the blocky shape aimed at him. Two silver leads shot out and embedded in his vest, sizzling futilely with energy that never penetrated the ceramic plate. Alec swiped the wires aside, yanking the leads out of the vest’s fabric cover.

 _“Fucking shit!”_ his target snapped, pulling the trigger again. Sparks arced across the front of the weapon, even though the single distance shot had been expended.

Bloody hell. It had a backup charge with two electrodes meant for close combat, just like the weapons Q Branch had issued nine months earlier. At least that was confirmation that he was on the right track. Bradshaw had stolen their design. Probably improved it, too.

But Alec outweighed his target by three times, judging by the bony wrists and slender hands, so he rushed to close the distance, keeping the gun — finger off the trigger now — as a last resort. If nothing else, actually shooting would mean a police inquiry and nosy neighbours and inconvenient paperwork.

His target wasn’t an idiot. The stun gun hit not centre-of-mass but on Alec’s arm, right through the cotton dress shirt he wore over his vest. Even anticipating the hit, Alec felt himself lose momentary control, though he made bloody well sure to lock his arm around his target so they both crashed to the floor.

As soon as they hit, his attacker lost their grip on the stun gun. The charge dissipated, and Alec twisted to roll on top of them, trusting muscle mass alone to put an end to the fight.

His attacker had other ideas. Teeth closed on Alec’s upper arm, right above the stun gun’s burn, hard enough to draw blood even through ridiculously expensive imported cotton. Alec swore and smacked the butt of his gun into his target’s skull, pulling the blow at the last minute. Underneath the baggy clothes, he felt sharp bones that were likely to break under too much force.

The blow broke the bite, but that didn’t stop his attacker from punching ineffectively into Alec’s body armour and thrashing, aiming kicks and knee-strikes at more sensitive, less-protected areas. It was like wrestling a giant bloody weasel, and Alec finally had to hit them again, this time hard enough to draw a pained curse and a flinch.

“Hold it!” Alec barked, shouting it first in Russian without realising it. He repeated himself in English, emphasising the command with a hard press of the gun’s muzzle to his target’s temple, right next to a hairline that showed a slight edge of medium brown growing in under the black dye.

The thrashing stopped, but the swearing didn’t. The target barely had breath, was heaving gasps, but the words were loud and raw in Alec’s face. “Fuck you, you fucking fuck!”

Catching his own breath, Alec pushed up on his free arm — braced across his target’s chest to keep them down — and finally got a good look at what he thought at first was the bloody ex-Quartermaster, Adam Bradshaw. Same hazel eyes, same dark lips, same high cheekbones. But one eyebrow was pierced, as were one nostril and his lower lip, almost at the corner of his mouth. Black plugs in the earlobes, at least a centimetre across, and various other cartilage piercings that made Alec wince, imagining how much they’d hurt.

“Who the fuck are _you?_ ” he asked, staring down into the physical embodiment of resentment and hostility. “Bradshaw’s bloody evil twin?”

The punk’s eyes went wide and then narrowed, filling with murderous rage. “Who the fuck are _you,_ you fucking arse? Get _off_ me! I’ll tear your fucking lungs out if you — _Fuck!_ ”

“You need to switch to decaf,” Alec said, more amused than was probably wise. But he couldn’t catch a hint of another presence in the flat, the music was still playing loud enough that no neighbours would hear the evil twin’s cursing, and the air conditioner was pouring blissfully cold air down over his back. He could do this all bloody day, if not for the looming threat against James, Mallory, and MI6 in general.

“The fuck is your problem? What do you fucking _want,_ you great fat fuck?” The spiky little shit was angry enough that his face was bright red, and Alec worried he would burst a blood vessel somewhere.

“I’d tell you my BMI, but we’ve only just met,” Alec said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he glanced at his much-abused left arm and scowled at the blood seeping through his sleeve. “Have you had your shots?”

“I will fucking kill you.” The voice went low and cold. Dangerous.

“Right.” Alec got to his feet, hauling the evil twin up along with him. A shove put his gut up against the counter, and Alec moved the muzzle of his gun to the back of the spiky hair. “Any knives or sharps I need to know about?”

“Not on me.”

“Scorpions? You look the type to have a pet scorpion,” Alec said, starting to frisk the evil twin — a task made easier by the baggy tracksuit with no pockets to hide anything particularly lethal. His chest, shoulders, and arms were all sharp bones and barely any muscles. No pants — or anything else but a flat body between protruding hipbones. Whatever the hedgehog did or didn’t have between his legs wasn’t any of Alec’s damned business, as long as no weapons were involved, so he frisked down each leg. No socks, no weapons. Satisfied the hedgehog was de-fanged, he stepped back.

The Bradshaw lookalike took a deep breath, then said, acerbically, “Do you plan on telling me _why_ you’ve broken into my flat and are threatening to kill me? Or is it just for laughs?”

“I haven’t threatened to kill you once. You did, two or three times, but I haven’t.”

“You put a fucking gun to my head. That’s threat enough, you fucking wanker.”

“Then you’re in the wrong line of work,” Alec said bluntly. “Turn around.”

“Oh, yeah?” The punk turned around to face him, eyes steely, jaw set. “And what line is that, then?”

“Treason against the crown, to start. But because your air conditioner is fucking perfect, I’ll give you the choice of talking here or at headquarters, where it’s not half so good.” Alec looked his target up and down, finally picking out the subtle differences between the memorised photos of the ex-Quartermaster and the living specimen before him. Even without the superficial differences — piercings, dye, and even worse fashion sense — this twin was made up of edges that were lethally sharp. “You his twin or born nine months apart?”

“Who?”

Alec sighed. “Fuck if I know. Hell, you might be a bloody clone. A whole fucking army of you.”

“That would be a laugh. You’re lucky as fuck there’s only one of me, mate.”

“Then I hate to be the one to break it to you,” Alec said dryly, “but you’ve got a twin in Spain. That or you’re a bloody teleporter. _And_ you bit me.” He glanced down at his arm again and frowned.

“Yeah, well, you deserved it, you fucking knob.”

“You shot me with a stun gun!”

“What _is_ this? You’re the one with the fucking kevlar and a god damned Walther; stop whinging like a baby.” The idiot actually started to turn away from Alec as he continued, “You want something to drink? I need some water. Or a beer.”

Was he actually...? Alec wondered, staring in mild shock as, yes, Q's clone opened the fridge and took out two beers. “It’s not even ten in the fucking morning. I want some bloody answers.”

“Ask a fucking coherent question then, you Russian cretin,” the clone said, holding out an unopened bottle as if expecting Alec to take it.

Instead of asking about Mallory or the ex-Quartermaster or MI6’s stolen secrets and tech, what came out was, “Are you fucking mad?”

“As a hatter. Take the bloody beer, before I break it over your head.” There was something in the punk’s eyes that looked both gleeful and fierce, as if he made a habit of starting bar fights for fun and wanted to recreate one in his own kitchen.

“Set it down,” Alec said, twitching the gun to indicate the empty countertop. The whole bloody kitchen was empty, in fact, with everything neatly tucked away in drawers and cupboards. It had a vacant feel to it, as if the clone were a squatter or transient instead of an actual resident with bills and takeout cartons and the other things that went with having a flat. “What’s your name?”

“Z,” he said, smiling brightly as he set down one beer and popped the top off the other using a bottle opener mounted on the counter near his hip. “What’s yours?”

“‘Zed’,” Alec repeated blankly. “Z, brother of Q. Who the _fuck_ thought that was clever?”

“Oi! I came up with mine first.” Z’s indignant face fell, and he swore under his breath before taking a long drink from his bottle.

That wasn’t just truth; it was genuine sentiment. Another time, Alec might’ve felt guilty for his harsh words, but not with James in danger. Now, he pounced on the confirmation that the punk hedgehog knew the ex-Quartermaster — obvious as it was — and demanded, “Where’s Mallory?”

“Fuck if I know. I’ve been looking for him since he went missing. Which is a fuckload more than you lot have been doing.”

How had Z and Bradshaw — or Q — known immediately? After some math made fuzzy because of time zones and sleep deprivation, Alec wondered if they’d known before or after the anonymous tip that had alerted MI6. If so, Q and this Z clone of his had probably been involved. Had they been double-crossed by their allies? That made Z an asset to be interrogated under controlled circumstances, not here, no matter how nice the air conditioning was. He switched the gun to his left hand, fully prepared to kneecap this Z person if he tried anything, and got the mobile out of his jeans pocket.

Z, who had been stupidly nonchalant the whole time the gun was pointed at him, lifted both hands — the beer still in one — in surrender at the sight of the mobile. “Whoa, easy, hang on. What do you think you’re doing with that thing? We can have a little chat, the two of us, but that’s it, all right?”

 _Interesting,_ Alec thought, letting his hand fall back to his side, though he didn’t put the phone in his pocket. Was Z delaying in hopes that someone else — a triplet, maybe — would show up and save the day? Did he think Alec worked for someone other than MI6?

Valid questions, but Alec was nowhere near top form, and if Z was anything like the ex-Quartermaster in more than looks, he was probably another bloody genius, able to outthink most Double O’s at their best.

Call for backup or let Z win this round? The pain in Alec’s arm had settled down to stay for a good long while, and he was hours away from giving James the backup he needed, and he had no fucking clue where to begin looking for Mallory, other than right here.

And that was where to start.

He smiled and pocketed the phone, noting the way that Z relaxed. “Tell me everything you learned about who took Mallory.”

“Who’s asking?”

There was no harm in telling him. Switching the gun back to his right hand, he said, “Alec Trevelyan.”

“006? So you did come back from America, then? Good.”

How the _fuck_ did he know about Alec’s designation, much less his previous mission? Were MI6’s systems still compromised? The air conditioners here were probably because of computers, not human comfort, which meant that Z was every bit the hacker the former Quartermaster had been.

“Right, then,” he said, glancing around the flat that was probably no more than a safehouse. “Do you have anything here that you need to survive?”

“I’m not leaving.” Z set down his beer and crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “You can go whenever you like or stay right here ’til we find him, but I’m going nowhere.”

“Either you help me find Mallory” — Alec chose not to mention the part about making Q disappear so thoroughly that he’d never see daylight again — “or I hand you over to MI6 and you help _them_.”

Once the words were out, he realised they didn’t precisely make sense as an effective threat, but fuck it. He had a gun, and he was exhausted. Z looked twitchy enough that Alec could probably shoot the beer bottle and he’d cave.

“Now we’re talking. Put your fucking toy away, and I’ll show you the command centre. Grab your beer and follow me.” Z beckoned Alec to follow him as he headed for the back of the flat, as if this were some sort of joint mission.

Bemused, Alec wondered if he should fire off that warning shot, but his instincts told him Z would be more useful if left in his own environment. He decided to give Z until James phoned with new contact information and a location for a safe meeting. If nothing else, James would be able to use Z as a threat to keep Q under control.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thursday, 22 August 2013**

After a meal that James managed to stretch with rice and crusty bread, he gathered up Q’s discarded clothes and brought them into the salon, where Q was still seated at the table. “Is there anything hidden in the seams?”

Q looked up at him and nodded slowly.

“Where? Tell me — don’t show me,” James warned as he sat down. His Walther was once more holstered at the small of his back, but they both knew just how quickly he could draw it.

“The waistband of my pants.” Q winced as he watched James run his fingers over the waistband, searching carefully for whatever was concealed there. He nearly missed it on the first pass: a tiny square of plastic, smaller than his fingernail, with copper contacts along one edge.

He worked the micro SD card through the gap in the stitching and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Anything else?” When Q shook his head, James gathered the clothes into a bundle and stood back up. “Come with me. What’s on the card?”

Smiling wanly over his shoulder as he led the way up top, Q replied, “Sensitive documents. What else?”

James stared at Q’s back, silhouetted against the midday sky. Even with the cool sea breeze and the cockpit’s hardtop roof, it was still pleasantly warm up top. “Was it worth it?” he asked quietly.

Q turned again to look back at him, puzzled. “Was what worth what?”

“The secrets you stole.” A hint of anger disrupted James’ relaxed mood like a discordant note.

One eyebrow arched up, sceptically, as Q replied quietly, “I’ll let you know when they find Mallory.”

 _Right,_ James thought, gesturing Q to the lounge behind the cockpit. As Q sat down, James crossed to the back deck, where he tossed Q’s clothes overboard, along with his own mobile phone and battery. “I’m keeping your computer because MI6 will want it,” he said, turning back to Q. “If anyone asks, our story is that the airline lost your luggage, but you have your computer because it was carry-on. And being idiot tourists, instead of going shopping or to a hotel first, we went to the beach. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Q nodded.

A corner of James’ mind considered how much easier this would all be with Q working _with_ him instead of at odds. The rest of him was fixed on memorising Q’s voice saying those words, compliant but not broken. He considered telling Q to stop, but he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

Instead, he unlatched one of the drawers, found the remote control, and raised the telly up out of its hiding place in the bar across from the lounge bench. “We’ve got an hour or so before we get to a safe port. Did you want a drink?” he asked, sliding the remote control across the tabletop to Q. The telly was hooked up to the boat’s media server, rather than a satellite dish, but the server was a dead end, with no external data hookup. Q couldn’t cause any damage beyond erasing the server, and even a genius would be hard pressed to turn the remote into a laser-death-weapon without basic hand tools.

“Not unless you’re having one. But you’re driving, aren’t you?” Q said as he took up the remote but didn’t do anything with it.

“I won’t mention the fighter jet incident,” James said dryly as he went forward again, to the cockpit. The controls were at a comfortable height for standing or sitting, so he leaned against the side wall, where he could keep an eye on the sea and on Q, just in case. He was never going to underestimate the former Quartermaster again.

“Bond?”

“Something wrong with the telly?” James asked as he got the engine started.

“It’s almost time for my check-in. May I use my computer since we don’t have a phone?”

 _Bugger._ How had he forgotten about that? He shot Q a warning look and said, “Stay here.”

“I’ll need my hotspot. Let me come down with you and get it.” Q didn’t move but looked ready to as soon as he had permission.

“I said stay,” James snapped more sharply. “Where’s the hotspot?”

“Front pocket of my laptop bag, in the port side cupboard.” He paused for just a moment before adding, “There’s a gun in that bag, too, in the interest of full disclosure...”

The flash of irritation faded in moments. In Q’s place, James would’ve tried the same trick — and, yes, he probably would’ve mentioned a weapon to get on his captor’s good side, too. “You’ve learned a lot these past ten months, haven’t you?” he asked coolly, looking at Q.

Q looked back, eyes wide. “I wasn’t trying to get at the gun. I really need to check in, and I dumped my phone last night.”

Once, James would’ve fallen for the innocent act. Now, though, he had a burn on his abdomen as a reminder that Q wasn’t innocent at all. It was a bloody depressing thought.

He went below without another word. He picked up the laptop in the galley, then went to the aft cabin. With the engines idling, he had to concentrate to hear any hint of movement from the lounge above. He opened the port cupboard and pulled out the laptop bag. It was one of the zip-open bags meant to pass quickly through airport security. The rear and centre compartments were both empty; the main front compartment held a dozen different types of cables, all neatly wrapped and velcroed in bundles, along with a small power strip. And the gun.

It proved to be a Beretta Cougar 8000, compact and familiar. This was the 9mm model, but it was close enough to the .357 James had carried for a short time that it felt like an old friend. The holster was simple leather held in place by a heavy-duty patch of velcro that served as a belt loop. James tore the holster free, then searched the rest of the bag. He found two more loaded magazines as well as the wireless hotspot exactly where Q had said it would be.

He brought the gun to the forward cabin, where he tucked it into a side compartment under the lounge bench. He could’ve put it on his belt, but carrying two guns felt decidedly gunslinger for a holiday, even a holiday that had been ruined by kidnapping and treason. Instead, he gave the hotspot a cursory search before deciding that if Q had tampered with it, he’d done so too subtly for James to detect.

He brought the laptop and hotspot up to the lounge, where Q was still seated in the same spot. He’d turned on the telly to the media server directory, but he wasn’t watching anything. James handed everything over and then sat down to watch as Q turned both the laptop and hotspot on and got them connected to each other. He looked over at James, who stayed right where he was.

“Be quick about it,” he added, just in case Q got any ideas about passing messages. There wasn’t much James could do about codes like he and Alec used, but he could stop anything blatant.

“You know this isn’t something like entering a code, right? There’s no way for you to do this without me.” Q was still just looking at James and not logging on to anything.

“Get on with it,” James said with a frustrated huff. “The sooner you’re done, the sooner we can get to port and a decent bloody hotel.”

Q looked at him for another few seconds, pressing his lips together, then turned to the screen and logged on to an internet relay chat program. He typed quickly and smoothly, and the replies came just as fast.

_Wotcher, Z._

_Wotcher, Q. All right?_

_Fair. Lost the reins and my favourite pen. But the office seems calm._

_Got a rep with me, actually. An American._

“What’s that mean?” James asked.

Q bit his lip. “I’m not sure... Give us a minute.”

_Better than, say, half a dozen englishmen in suits?_

_’Bout the same._

“Shit. 006 found him.”

James grinned. “Good. Let me talk to him.”

“No.” Then Q looked at the screen and added, “Not yet.” James couldn’t tell if Q amended his statement to keep him happy or not.

_He treating you well?_

_Grand. We’re tracking a package gone missing._

_Any luck?_

_Not yet. Fuck. He says hi, the nosy fuck._

Q huffed, amused, and said, “All right, Bond. What do you want to ask Trevelyan?”

Instead of answering, James switched the gun to his left hand and pulled the computer away from Q. One-handed, he typed: _Status update, Alec?_

The answer came almost at once: _The bugger bit me. Fucking arse._

Q snorted a laugh and muttered, “Good show, mate.”

Why hadn’t Alec answered the bite with a gunshot? Suspicious, James typed: _Go to Medical. Your girlfriend misses you._

More slowly this time, Alec answered: _This one’s more than half a vampire, I think. The bite came after the taser._

James turned, eyebrow raised. “Who the fuck is he with?”

“My other half,” Q said with a sardonic smirk.

“You’re _married?_ ” James demanded, refusing to feel even the slightest bit disappointed.

“No. Give me back the keyboard.”

James’ eyes narrowed at the lack of information. Instead of relinquishing the computer, he typed: _Signing off now. No more check-ins. I’ll contact as planned. Keep things under control over there._

_Fuck that, mate. Q?_

Obviously that wasn’t Alec. James turned the computer to Q and said, “Fifteen seconds. Choose your words carefully.”

Q rolled his eyes and typed: _Mine’s a controlling bastard, so I might be late, but I’ll find you._

_You better. Enjoy while you’re at it._

_Fuck off, mate. Keep up the good fight._

_Always. Head up, eyes clear. xo_

_Always. xo_

Well, that was clear. Married in all but name, long-term relationship, a bloody civil partnership, for all James knew.

Resolving to ignore Q’s ‘sirs’ from now on, James pulled the laptop back and closed the lid with perhaps more force than was necessary. Then he picked up the hotspot so he could turn it off. He couldn’t access the battery without a screwdriver, but that didn’t matter. He threw it off the back of the boat; it disappeared with a satisfyingly loud splash.

“ _Fuck!”_ Q stood to watch it go, then turned back to James with a stricken expression. It took him a second to school his face into showing mere disappointment instead. “That was unnecessary.”

James smiled coldly and stood. He picked up the laptop and his Walther, saying, “It’s a vulnerability. I’ll arrange something secure when I can.” He turned and stepped up to the cockpit, where he set the laptop on the co-pilot’s seat.

“That was as secure as it gets. And if he gets jumpy, he’ll start wreaking havoc with MI6’s files right under Trevelyan’s nose.”

 _He._ James bit back a sigh and reminded himself — again — that Q was a bloody traitor, no matter how interesting he’d once been.

“You’d best hope not,” James said bluntly as he put the boat into gear. “If Alec gets suspicious, he’ll take steps — and he’s not nearly as patient as I am.”

Q sighed. “He won’t even notice. Z is the best there is. But he gets bored. And antsy. This is why check-ins happen every four hours. I’m not trying to be difficult; I’m trying to keep things from escalating. Make finding a secure method of communication a priority. Please, sir.”

At least this time, the ‘sir’ didn’t burn through another layer of his self-control — not now that he knew that Q was both a traitor _and_ unavailable. Instead, James just focused on getting the boat pointed in the right direction and said, “You’d best figure out a way to warn ‘Z’ off that course, or he’ll spend the rest of this adventure in a concrete cell under MI6.”

“You underestimate him. Why am I not surprised?” Q sat down facing aft, where James couldn’t see his face.

Underestimate? If anything, it was Q who was underestimating the Double O’s, and James was reminded of Q’s disdainful comparison between James’ skill in the field and his own skill with a bloody laptop. But what Q — and probably this Z person — didn’t want to accept was that sometimes problems required a decisive, bloody solution to cut through all the complications.

James had no doubt that Alec had Q’s partner entirely under control.

 

~~~

 

Two and a half seconds of very sketchy CCTV footage, zoomed in and enhanced to the point of near-uselessness. A string of witness interviews that were even more useless, amounting to “I didn’t see anything.” No ID on the make, model, or even colour of the car, beyond “four-door car” and no idea of its destination.

“This was too well-planned,” Alec complained for what felt like the tenth time. He raked a hand through his hair and tapped his fingers on the butt of the gun that he still had out only because technically Z was guilty of either aiding and abetting a traitor or being a traitor himself.

“No such thing as too much planning,” Z said, around the end of a pen sticking out of his mouth. Alec hadn’t seen him use it once, so it was probably a snack instead of a writing tool. Alec wouldn’t put it past Z to live on a diet of ink and simmering rage.

“There’s planning and then there’s fucking professional execution. This was _art_.” Alec reached past Z to restart the brief camera footage. “They knew Mallory’s schedule. They knew the location of every damned camera. MI6 couldn’t have planned it any more perfectly.”

“There’s nothing even on social fucking media,” Z complained, then turned to Alec and added, “But you know MI6 isn’t the fucking prince of planning. I know how often you lot fuck up.”

“That’s only because the bloody execs get in the way,” Alec said truthfully. “Plus, James and I are only two out of a classified number of field operatives. The law of averages balances out our successes.”

“Right. Bloody perfect, you two are. Or do you just scare everyone into saying that? Sit on their chests until they agree?”

Someone was still sore about their initial encounter earlier. Alec snickered and pointed out, “That qualifies as a success, though. Besides, I can just shoot the idiots who disagree. The Queen says so. I think I have it on a card in my wallet.”

“Show.” Z held out his left hand as he continued to type with the right.

“Oh, bugger that. You’d probably eat it, and then I’d have to go to Personnel to get another one, and I don’t do paperwork.”

Pulling his hand back to type three times faster with both, Z grinned like a shark. “You don’t even have to let go of it. Doesn’t take but a glance to be able to reproduce something like that. I don’t care how many holograms it’s got on it.”

“And this is why I’m taking you into custody or whatever it is I have to do on home soil,” Alec said, thinking he should probably look that up. Technically, he had zero authority here, but this was a crisis. Again. Besides, who was going to stop him? MI5?

“Like fuck you are. I’m not leaving this room until this is all over, and by then your precious M will be bending over backwards for me,” Z said blithely, twirling the chewed-up pen between his fingers, acting as if he did this sort of thing for a lark.

“I’m ninety per cent certain you’re not Mallory’s type,” Alec said honestly. It wasn’t until Mallory showed up that MI6 actually began _enforcing_ its dress code. “He might well have a heart attack just at the sight of you.”

“He liked Q well enough. In most cases, we’re fucking interchangeable.”

“Q doesn’t set off metal detectors with his face, unless he’s one of those supervillains with a metal skull under a human mask.” Alec shrugged. “Which could be the case, I suppose.”

“Sure, but looks can be deceiving, mate. Besides, I wouldn’t even have to go into the office. I work in me pj’s all the fucking time.” Z reached for his beer bottle, only to find it empty. “You not drinking yours?”

A drunk Z was probably more tractable than... Well, no. On reflection, Alec doubted that any amount of alcohol could blunt those sharp edges. Still, he slid his untouched beer over to Z, then prudently moved his gun away by another inch or so.

Then he stood up so he could crack his back, muttering, “We’re going about this all wrong. They’ve been watching Mallory for weeks. Pull up CCTV footage around Mallory’s house for the last month or two. Look for any cars not registered —”

“Yeah, yeah. Done this before,” Z said, though there was an edge of excitement in his voice. Instead of going for the beer, he stuck the pen between his teeth and went back to two-handed typing. “Cars, facial rec...”

“Credit reports for him and his family,” Alec said thoughtfully. “Any inquiries. Utility workers —”

“Appointments. Fucking doctors and nursery and dry cleaners.” Z moved his current search window to a second monitor, then opened a command prompt. A minute later, an Outlook calendar appeared, and Alec leaned down, recognizing at least some of the names on the meeting appointments.

“Mallory’s appointment calendar,” he said, wondering if Z had even _noticed_ the firewalls. “There’s another felony. Are you going for a gold medal?”

“Tip of the fucking iceberg, mate. Tell me how many people you’ve killed that _actually_ deserved it, and we’ll talk.”

“Put that here,” Alec said, tapping the third monitor, closest to him. He figured if one of them was going to illegally read it, it might as well be him.

Z complied without a word, already distracted with digging into the mail server’s logs.

Alec took out his mobile and rang Q Branch to set the official hounds on the trail, though it looked like Z might well beat them to the kill. He was already digging into Mallory’s mobile phone logs, and Alec started thinking that it might be worth the effort to try and turn Z. Some of MI6’s best operatives had started out as enemies, and Z was too clever to run around off-lead.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thursday, 22 August 2013**

In James’ experience, there were few problems that couldn’t be solved with enough money, violence, or both. In this case, James chose the former. He put on a casual blazer over a lightweight shirt to hide the two guns at his back. His watch was a Piguet, acquired on a mission just four months earlier. A touch-up with his razor, a quick swipe of the comb, and he looked the part of his wealthiest, most self-centred cover identity. Just the type of man who’d show up in Spain on a whim and demand perfect service.

He left Q onboard the _Olivia May_ and presented himself to the harbour staff as Richard Sterling, Chief of International Sales for Universal Exports. One swipe of his credit card arranged for a week’s berth for the boat — long enough for either Alec to rescue Mallory, allowing James to resume his holiday, or for him to hire a crew to get her back to London. Then he charmed the harbourmaster’s assistant into contacting the concierge at one of the finest luxury resorts in the area. A brief conversation later, and he was able to return to the boat, satisfied.

James found Q in the salon, looking substantially more bored than he had forty minutes earlier. “Up,” James said, glancing over at the luggage. It wasn’t much — his two suitcases and Q’s laptop bag, looking decidedly beat-up by comparison. After a moment’s thought, he said, “You can carry the laptop bag or let the attendants take care of it. Up to you. Our car will be here shortly.”

“I’ve got it.” Q stood and picked up his bag, asking, “Where are we headed?”

“Our hotel.” James opened his wallet and passed Q a black business card with silver lettering. It was a little gaudy, but it had come from the MI6 art department rather than a proper advertising agency.

Q looked carefully at it for a few moments, then offered it back. “Right. And who’s this when he’s at home?”

“Me. Fully backstopped,” James said quietly, waving the card away. He was a little surprised Q hadn’t picked up on the subtle changes in his behaviour, but maybe Q had never been on the other end of a deep cover identity. It was one thing to _be_ undercover, as Q had been for months at MI6; it was another to recognise the hallmarks of someone else who was undercover.

“Of course,” Q said with a subtle smile as he slid the card into his laptop bag. “And who am I supposed to be? Or do I get to choose?”

“For what I’m paying? Nobody will even ask. I could bring a polar bear as my guest, and they wouldn’t blink,” James said truthfully. He’d done it once, though with a tiger rather than a polar bear.

“Do _you_ not plan on calling me anything? Or is it to be ‘you there’ or ‘boy’?” The relaxed smile remained in place but Q’s eyes gleamed sharply.

“We won’t be around anyone to overhear. You’ll be quiet in the car, and we _should_ be escorted right to the suite.” James shrugged, trying not to think of everything that could go wrong, from compromised identity to someone recognising Q. But the ability to improvise in the face of a crisis was what separated a Double O from the rest of the field agents. “Pick a name, if you like.”

“Andrew.” Q’s face went blank and he looked down at his hands on his bag. “It’s good to have something, just in case, and I've used that one before.”

James nodded, hiding the way his mind latched onto the name. Most people, when choosing false identities, stuck with their initials. Was ‘Adam Bradshaw’ actually named Andrew? Perhaps, but after the last twelve hours, James had trouble thinking of him as anything but ‘Q’.

Either way, he’d have MI6 investigate, once he got his hands on a secure mobile. After they were settled, he’d arrange for the concierge to send someone shopping. If nothing else, Q needed a change of clothes, though keeping him barefoot could be a useful way to prevent him from wandering out of the suite if he decided that he didn’t want MI6’s protection after all.

It was tempting to call in backup from the nearest station, but James was hesitant to involve anyone but Alec. There was no telling how many more people at MI6 were compromised — part of either Silva’s old network or Q’s — and James didn’t feel like being outnumbered.

No, he’d bide his time alone with Q, at least until Alec was finished with his own investigation. Worst case, a bullet in the kneecap would curtail Q’s movements.

 

~~~

 

Three-quarters of making people believe a cover identity was to believe it yourself. In this case, Richard Sterling thought nothing of crossing the spacious lobby to the lifts, followed by an attendant and Q — Andrew — in his too-large track bottoms and green T-shirt. Much to James’ amusement, when their car had been met at the front doors, the doorman had offered Q a pair of slippers.

The attendant took a cue from James’ silence and didn’t try to chat. Instead, he brought them up to the third floor, where he opened the door to their suite, ushered them inside, and then followed.

“No need,” James said when the attendant moved to unpack his luggage. He took both keycards, passed over a generous tip, and then saw the man out.

Once the door was locked, James could breathe easier. He unbuttoned his jacket, put the keycards in one pocket, and gestured for Q to wait. A quick check of the suite ensured it was empty and secure. Other than the hallway door, the only other exit went from the bedroom to the private balcony, with a tiny pool and a drop of over thirty feet. Even after ten months on the run, James doubted Q could climb safely down to the ground or up to the roof.

“You have the run of the suite, but don’t leave,” James told Q as he put out his hand. “Give me the bag.”

Q’s hand clutched the bag hard before he handed it over. “I should check in soon.”

“It can wait.”

James took the bag and went into the bedroom, where he found a safe in the wardrobe. A child could hack it — hotel safes were electronically controlled by the front desk to prevent guests from permanently locking away their valuables — but James would take precautions later. For now, he locked up the laptop and, after a moment’s consideration, both guns. He wanted a drink and a good long soak in the tub without having to stay on guard against a bullet in the back.

Q had moved to the window, where he was looking out over a manicured garden of flower-lined paths surrounding a fountain. It was the sort of tranquillity that had drawn James to Spain.

“It’s beautiful. And supremely boring.” Q turned from the window to smile sheepishly at James. “I’m not good at being idle, but I’ll try not to take it out on you.”

“A wise choice.” James shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the desk chair. “I’m going to have a bath. We’ll order room service later. If you’re tired, you can have the bed.”

“All I want is a phone. You know they’re together so one check-in serves us both. Besides, they might have found something.”

“You’ll have to wait until I get one.” James glanced at the desk, then unplugged the cable from the wall and the phone. “Secure comms only. I’m sure you remember the protocol,” he said, heading to the bedroom, where he sat down on the edge of the bed and dialled the front desk to give them his shopping order.

Out in the living room, he heard a deep, dramatic huff, followed by a soft thud and creak — a body slumping onto the couch, he presumed. After everything Q had done to MI6, exasperation was the least of what he deserved.

 

~~~

 

For some time, the only sounds in Z’s criminal hideaway were key-clicking, pen-chewing, and one minor snit over which of them got to use the mouse first.

Then Z prodded Alec’s arm, which he hadn’t yet bandaged, and said, “Here’s something odd. What’s the protocol for work orders from IT? Do they do scheduled maintenance like this during work hours?”

“No,” Alec said, though it was a guess. He avoided IT after they found out that he’d forged Tanner’s signature to authorise the installation of a Quake server on the internal network — not that they’d taken the server down.

“Then someone’s been fucking around with shit from _within_ MI6. This is a fucking inside job.”

Alec turned his chair to face Z, who pushed back from the keyboard and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “We knew that. Whole bloody place is riddled with moles, thanks to Silva and your eviller twin.”

“Well, clean fucking house then, because someone was able to get into your M’s office and physically bypass his computer’s security.” Z gave Alec a bleak look.

Alec didn’t share the sentiment. “Physical bypass. Keylogger or the like, right?” he asked as he got to his feet. He rolled his shoulders and winced when his sleeve tugged at the scab on his arm. “Right. On your feet. Put on some shoes.”

Z didn’t move, nor did his expression get any more optimistic. “I’m not fucking getting dressed just so you can arrest me.”

“No, you’re getting dressed so Security doesn’t throw you out for having bare feet. Because if they do, you can’t help me identify whatever the fuck is _in_ Mallory’s computer so we can find the bastard who put it there — assuming it wasn’t you or your eviller twin.”

“It wasn’t fucking Q, all right? And I’m definitely the more evil.” Z got up and headed for one of the two closed doors on the far side of the room, adding over his shoulder, “That IT tech you called. Can he be retasked?”

“Probably,” Alec said, following. “Do you need him to go grocery shopping?”

“No, you stay right here,” Z said, turning in the doorway and blocking Alec’s path. “And now you mention it, does MI6 allow pizza delivery?”

“I’m a Double O. I could bring in a bloody nuke, and they’d send me a sharp note in two weeks. Are you using a St Andrew’s cross to dry laundry?”

Z looked over his shoulder, then back at Alec, and shrugged. “What? It’s bloody convenient. Think about food while I get dressed. Have a fucking plan to keep us from passing the fuck out. It’s going to be a long evening.”

Alec put out a hand to stop the door closing. “Felon. Have you forgotten? And possibly domestic cyber-terrorist. Just because I’m feeding you and bringing you into the executive wing of MI6 doesn’t mean you’re not in custody.”

“So? Shove off. I’m changing.” Z’s voice got hard, and his chin jutted out in challenge.

“And you’re as likely to climb out the window, set the flat on fire, or try to smuggle a nuke of your own into MI6,” Alec pointed out logically. “I don’t see you as the type to have a fucking Savile Row suit in there, so nobody’s going to give a rat’s arse what you’re wearing. Just put on shoes.”

“I’m not going out like this.” There was something panicky in Z’s belligerence, which was new. “I’ll talk to you through the door, and you can frisk me after, but you aren’t coming in while I change.” His hand on the door had gone white from gripping it so hard.

“Christ. You and James,” Alec said, relenting with a sigh. As soon as he was clear, the door slammed shut. Alec leaned against the wall, surprised he didn’t hear a lock turn. “It’s MI6!” he shouted. “Not a bloody wedding!”

“You’re talking about 007? The wanker in the suits? No, mate, I’m not like that.” Z’s voice had lost all tension and even sounded amused.

“That ‘wanker’ is my closest friend,” Alec yelled back, though he sometimes wondered if he and James weren’t married by now. Blokes weren’t exactly Alec’s type, but no one else on the planet tolerated him for more than two weeks — not the way James did.

“So, is he a good bloke?” Z asked, his voice a bit muffled. “Treats dogs well, fucking tips generously?”

Alec frowned at the question. Was Z just making awkward conversation or had Q mentioned James to him? Was Z _interested_ in James? That would be a fucking disaster. He couldn’t imagine them being in the same room for thirty seconds before James commented on Z’s fashion sense.

“Yeah?” he finally said uncertainly.

“I mean, I know he kills people for money, but is he an actual fucking psychopath? Because he’s got my fucking brother, and I need to know how worried I should be.”

“I haven’t killed _you_ yet,” Alec pointed out logically. Psychopathy — or not — was one of those things no one really discussed around the Double O’s, though they all understood it took a cracked mind to accept what they did and be able to sleep at night.

“Yeah, and you’re a fucking headcase, but I doubt you spend your days off kicking puppies. Have you seen Q? He’s a fucking puppy. And he sometimes goes soft on — Never mind.”

“Oh, by all means, go ahead,” Alec said, wondering exactly what Q had said about James. “Now I need to know. Psychopath, remember? Isn’t there something about anger reactions if our needs go unsatisfied? Or am I thinking of lions?”

Z huffed a laugh. “Same bloody difference. I just meant Q fucking needs looking after, and I don’t want your man to fuck with him. Mostly because I don’t want to have to erase him.”

Alec rolled his eyes. “And I’d rather not gut you for your secrets. You’re a hell of a lot less boring than our whole fucking IT department, for one.”

“Yeah, well, put me in charge of it, and that’ll change right up front.” The door opened and Z stepped out, wearing skinny black jeans and a black band T-shirt under a faded black denim jacket. In his hand were a pair of calf-height black leather boots with excessive silver buckles. “Look, mate, just lie to me and say Q’s in safe hands, all right?”

“He was assigned to protect Q. As long as Q doesn’t assault him and isn’t a pain in the arse, he’s safe as houses,” Alec said truthfully.

Z nodded, lips pressed together, then muttered, “Fucking shit.” He flopped down into his desk chair and started pulling on his boots. “He fucking tased the bastard already.”

Alec winced, wondering if Q had turned suicidal after ten months of being on the run. That sort of thing happened. “If James didn’t kill him right away, he won’t,” he finally said. “Not until this is all settled. And he’d bring Q back to MI6 custody first.”

Why the hell was he actually telling the truth? Or something close to it, at any rate. Z wanted reassurance, not facts.

Or maybe that was why. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked him anything _honestly_. That deserved a little consideration — even if it was the spiky little bastard who’d bit him.

“Fuck.” It was a sigh of relief. “All right. But when they check in next, which should be fucking soon, make sure you talk him down, eh? That’s my bloody _twin_ he’s got. That’s my fucking family.” Z looked up at Alec with sincere worry in his eyes.

“And you _bit_ me. Who’s talking me down?” Alec countered.

Z’s face brightened into a winning smile. “You don’t need it; you _like_ me. And we’re having fun, aren’t we?” He stood and clapped Alec on the non-injured shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”

At least he wasn’t moping. Alec didn’t think he’d be able to tolerate that. So he shrugged and headed for the door, saying, “I’ve got a motorcycle, not a car, so don’t do anything stupid. I’d hate to leave you smeared across half of central London.”

“Perfect. I’ll race you.” Z grabbed a motorcycle helmet from a hook in the hallway, then stopped in his tracks and fished in his pockets. “Wait. Get these through security, will you?” He held out a pocket knife and a multitool.

“First, fine,” Alec said, taking away the potential weapons. He shoved them into a pocket, then took the helmet from Z’s other hand. “Second, I’m not turning you loose on a bloody motorcycle so you can make me chase you. As it is, MI5 is probably sending nasty messages to Tanner. And third, turn around and get against the wall.”

“Well, _you’re_ no fucking fun.” Z gave him a dirty look but turned around, put his hands on the wall, and spread his legs.

Alec replaced the helmet on its hook, then patted Z down, taking his time because of all the buckles and extra bits. This had been a hell of a lot easier with tracksuit bottoms, and the skinny jeans couldn’t be comfortable — especially now that he _did_ have something down there. It felt enough like any bloke’s cock and balls that Alec let it pass without further examination. If Z was going to shag someone to death, it wouldn’t be _him_ , so it wasn’t his problem. All _he_ had to do was figure out how to get the twin of one of MI6’s Most Wanted through a half-dozen Security checkpoints, past Moneypenny, and into the office of the most senior executive without getting them both gunned down.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thursday, 22 August 2013**

Before Silva, MI6 used to have twelve secure entrances — everything from two underground carpark entrances to the pedestrian doors used by staffers going out for a quick fag. Now, though, the building was so heavily locked down that they’d had to extend canteen hours because most staffers didn’t want the bother of waiting in line after lunch.

Thankfully, as a Double O, Alec had full access to the Secure Prisoner Intake entrance on level A. It would put him and Z in the detention wing, but he knew how to access the emergency stairwell without setting off alarms.

“Any problem with your knees or ankles? We have stairs ahead,” he warned as he parked his bike on the walkway near the guard booth. Two uniformed Section 20 officers were already heading his way, but he fended them off with a wave of the red-bordered ID card that he usually forgot to clip to his shirt.

Z pulled off his helmet and shook his head, making his piercings glint in the yellowish light. “No, but if you’re about to double cross me, that fucking bite will be the least of your worries,” he growled under his breath.

“Off. No sudden moves. And for fuck’s sake, be _nice_. You’ll break your teeth on their bloody body armour,” Alec warned, hanging his own helmet on one handlebar. That was an advantage to working at MI6: no petty thievery in the carpark, unless it was done by one of the field agents, and none of them were stupid enough to touch his motorcycle.

“This _is_ me nice,” Z said as he swung off the back of Alec’s bike with a toothy grin. He left the helmet on the back of the bike and added, “I only attack when I’m fucking provoked. Well, normally. Sometimes.”

“How come when I try that, nobody believes me?” Alec complained. He climbed off the bike and took hold of Z’s arm over the denim jacket. The guards hesitated, obviously confused by the mixed signals, wondering if Z was a guest on a very strange MI6 tour or a prisoner without restraints or other security precautions.

Ignoring them completely, Alec went right for the door, where he swiped his card and leaned down for the eye-scanner to verify his identity. The door unbolted, and Alec shouldered it open, then pulled Z into the secure airlock with him.

Mallory had done one thing right when he’d taken over: He’d authorised the Double O’s to carry their weapons anywhere in the building. It helped that James had saved his arse in a gunfight against Silva, converting Mallory from sceptic to fan in a handful of gunshots. So Alec ignored the ALL PERSONNEL MUST DISARM BEFORE ENTRY signs and crossed right to the sign-in window.

“Papers?” the guard asked through the intercom, avoiding eye-contact with both Alec and Z — and making Alec wonder which of them the guard feared more. Alec was a known threat, and Z looked like he could break out in a bout of rabies at any moment.

Alec grinned. “No need. We’re just taking a shortcut. He’ll need a visitor’s pass, escorted only.” Turning to Z, he added, “That means if you wander away from me, anyone can shoot you.”

“Right. Then you’d better fucking keep up.” Z smiled in a way that would have been innocent and sweet on anyone else.

Professionalism kept Alec from rolling his eyes. He turned back to the guard and said, “The pass?”

Frowning even more, the guard asked, “Name?”

“Leave it blank. Just take the picture.” He gave Z a push off to the side, where a camera was embedded in the wall beside the booth.

Z turned a cocky grin on Alec and murmured, “Does me hair look all right?” then stood complacently for the camera.

“You look like you lost a fight with three angry cats in a wind —”

A loud _clang_ cut Alec off, and the guard behind the window stood, smacking his hand down on the intercom button. “Ninety-six per cent match on a known target.”

“It’s not him,” Alec said calmly, thinking maybe he should’ve warned someone about this. He didn’t want to be forced to choose between shooting a colleague or Z, at least not while Z could be useful. “Stand down.”

“Sir —”

 _“Stand down!”_ Alec hadn’t been a military officer for years, and when he had been, he hadn’t been very good at it, but he knew how to give orders and have them obeyed, at least most of the time. It worked beautifully. Z flinched and swore under his breath, and the guard took his free hand from the butt of the gun that wouldn’t have helped him, since he was behind bullet-resistant glass.

“Sir —”

Alec let go of Z so he could flatten his hands on the counter over the pass-through drawer. It was a calculated display meant to prove that Z didn’t need to be physically restrained. “The pass, sergeant,” he said so quietly that the intercom crackled in an attempt to pick up his voice.

The guard’s eyes went to the badge clipped to Alec’s shirt. Then he focused on typing, saying, “I’ll be reporting this to the watch supervisor, 006.”

Alec resisted the urge to sigh. That meant another harsh note from Personnel and possibly a mentoring session with Tanner about being nice. As if that was part of his bloody job description?

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” he lied with a smile.

After visibly trying to calm himself with a deep breath, the guard pressed the intercom again and said, “Prisoner’s hand on the scanner panel below the camera.”

Z glanced at Alec, eyebrows up, then rested his hand on the scanner, muttering, “We aren’t even fucking identical.”

“Ninety-six per cent identical,” Alec said with a shrug. “At least as far as the software’s concerned. But aren’t you glad you’re here with me? Ninety-six per cent would be enough for most people to just shoot you.” He gave Z a comforting smile.

“You need a better fucking face rec program, if those are your parameters, mate.” Z leaned in to quietly add, “I’ve got one I’ve been working on...”

“If I don’t end up arresting you, I’ll introduce you to Tanner,” Alec promised, taking hold of Z’s arm once more. When the guard buzzed open the drawer under the counter, Alec took out the pass. In the photograph, Z looked like he was trying to set the camera on fire with his brain, but no one would notice. MI6 was notorious for taking bad employee pictures. He held out the badge and said, “Put that on. Don’t lose it.”

“Oh, that’s not half bad. I don’t look anything like him in this pic.” Z smiled proudly as he clipped the badge to a belt loop on his jeans.

“Never met him. James is the one who worked with him.” Alec huffed in remembered irritation at James mooning over Q and tugged Z over to the interior door, where he had to scan his card and eye to gain access to MI6 proper.

“Don’t I fucking know it? I’m still not sure how I feel about that wanker.” Z glanced over, eyebrows up in conciliation. “No offence, mate.”

Once the door unlocked and slid out of the way, Alec led Z through and into the detention wing’s main hallway. “Be nice. He’s protecting your brother, remember?”

“If that’s what he’s doing — if that’s _all_ he’s fucking doing — then I’m fine. Bloody top of the fucking world.”

Alec shot Z a look, wondering what twisted gears were turning in that brain of his. “What do you _think_ he’s doing? Protective custody is called ‘protective’ for a reason.” He stopped at the stairwell before the bank of lifts and scanned in again. The security precautions down here were excessive.

“Yeah, and ‘accidents’ fucking happen. Not to mention bloody seductive Double O’s. You lot like fucking with people’s heads, don’t you?” Z had somehow worked himself into anger, and he shot a derisive look at Alec.

“Oi, hold up,” Alec said as he pulled Z into the stairwell. The door closed with a loud, echoing _bang_. “Did you miss the part where your brother _betrayed MI6?_ James shags traitors only if it’s mission-crit—” Then he cut off, hand clenching around Z’s arm. “Wait. Q likes blokes?”

Z stared at Alec for a moment before saying, “You really _haven’t_ met him, have you? Yes, he fucking likes blokes.”

“Shit,” Alec muttered, giving Z a pull towards the stairs. They had nine flights to climb, and suddenly Alec was feeling the pressure of the mission. He needed to get James away from Q and fast, before James did something stupid.

 

~~~

 

A peaceful hour in the bath, followed by a long, hot shower and a close shave did wonders for James’ equilibrium. The only discordant note was that he kept the bathroom door open so he could eavesdrop on Q’s activities, and that meant there was no pleasant buildup of steam. Otherwise, though, the hotel was everything the harbourmaster had assured him it would be, right down to the plush towels and thick dressing gown.

Feeling much more like himself, he went to the bedroom phone and plugged it back in. The message light was blinking, so he phoned down to the front desk, then put in an order with room service.

He found Q on the patio, sprawled on a lounge chair, wearing nothing but a towel draped across his hips. He must have just come out of the pool; his hair was slicked back from his face, and the sunlight caught the water droplets on his skin. With his eyes closed, body relaxed, he looked nothing like the target who’d so severely wounded MI6.

James had to tell himself not to stare. He called through the open bedroom door, “Dinner will be here in half an hour,” and went to the wardrobe, thinking he needed to put on clothes. More than a dressing gown, at least. And then he had to go out to the front room, because he’d forgotten about telling the porter to leave his luggage rather than unpacking it.

He was too fucking distracted. Too _tired_. He’d been on holiday specifically because he wasn’t in the right mindset for a mission. Maybe once he got his new mobile, he’d call Tanner and demand to be relieved.

When he got back to the bedroom, luggage in tow, he startled Q in the doorway to the balcony. He was holding the towel around his waist with one hand. “Sorry. I can’t very well dress for dinner, but is there another dressing gown somewhere?”

“Bathroom. They’re also bringing you a change of clothes.” James got the luggage stand out of the wardrobe, opened it, then set one suitcase on top.

Q watched James impassively and said, “All right. Thank you. I’ll shower before the food comes.” He padded over to the bathroom door, then stopped. “Shall I leave the door open?”

The last thing James needed was the temptation of watching Q in the shower. Instead, he concentrated on neatly hanging his clothes. “No need. Take your time.”

“Thanks,” Q said, as he pulled the door closed but didn’t latch it. A few moments later, James heard the water start raining down in the shower, which was something he _definitely_ didn’t need to think about. Not with the image of Q’s wet skin in the sunlight.

And this was bloody ridiculous. He needed to get _anyone_ here to take over the mission. Then he could leave Spain and go somewhere completely different — the Alps, maybe — to distract himself.

For now, though, he dressed in old, comfortable jeans and a soft, sky blue shirt. He’d planned to wear the damned thing to the beach some time this week, but he’d never made it. No point in saving it now.

By the time he was dressed, a small army of attendants arrived, bearing both dinner and the shopping. James had them set up the dining table on the patio while he verified that the new mobile was clean and safe to use. The odds of one of the hotel staff being an enemy were minuscule but not impossible. If nothing else, Spain had its own foreign intelligence service.

When he turned to show the attendants out, he saw Q standing in the doorway, his eyes focused on the phone in James’ hand. Then he looked up at James’ face and nodded silently, moving to sit on the bed. His hair was a mess from towel drying, and his dressing gown was open enough to show a wide V of his chest, giving James another glimpse of the tattoo.

 _London A to Z,_ he thought, though he suspected the tattoo had nothing to do with London and everything to do with his partner. A for Andrew, and Z for... whatever.

Refusing to think about it any further, James tucked the phone into his pocket, then picked up two shopping bags. “Get dressed. These should do for now.” He brought the bags to the bedroom and dropped them at Q’s feet. “Dinner’s on the balcony.”

“Clearly. Thank you. I’ll be right out.” Q smiled quickly, then took the bags into the bathroom and closed the door once again.

Frustrated with himself, James went out to the balcony, then sighed. The balcony glowed with candlelight, piling unnecessary romance onto the already-intimate ambiance. It wasn’t even dark yet, for God’s sake; the sun wouldn’t set until nine. And of course he’d ordered tapas, rather than a sensible dinner on a single plate, so he couldn’t even retreat to the living room to eat in private.

 _Alec_. He was always good for a distraction, and it was about damn time that James checked in with him to ensure he wasn’t letting Z run loose. And even though he knew things were better this way, with Z and Q in MI6 custody, he couldn’t help but wish that Q were somewhere else, with Alec here instead.

 

~~~

 

Alec wasn’t entirely surprised to find Eve at her post despite the time. She was probably sleeping on the couch under the window for the duration of the crisis. “006 —” was as far as she got before her eyes locked to Z.

Pre-emptively, Alec pulled Z back and stepped to the side, shielding him from the gun that appeared in Eve’s hand. “Let’s not make it a habit to shoot Double O’s,” he said a little sharply. The never-ending flights of stairs had his head pounding from lack of sufficient caffeine and the need for a decent night’s sleep that wasn’t on an airplane. Having James home and safe would also help.

“What are you playing at, Trevelyan?” she asked suspiciously.

“Finding your boss. Where’s Tanner?”

“Out.” She slowly lowered the gun.

Alec shrugged. “Then we won’t bother him. Open up the inner sanctum, will you?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m self-promoting. Always wanted to be an exec when I grew up,” he said flatly.

Her eyes narrowed. _“Why?”_

Z stepped to the side, now the gun was down, and said, “Look, pet, it’s to help find the big boss. Just let me see his fucking computer, and we can be on our merry way.”

Before, she’d glimpsed Z just enough to make the mental connection to his traitorous twin. Now she got the full impact, and Alec snickered as her eyes went wide. She opened her mouth, closed it, then turned to Alec and asked, “And who’s _that?_ ”

Alec shrugged. “Not-quite-so-evil twin. He’s somewhat useful, though he bites. Pet him at your own risk.” He took Z’s arm again and started across the office, adding, “Speaking of which, send someone up from Medical. Tell them to bring more of that amphetamine replacement and some bandages.”

“What have you done now?” she asked suspiciously.

“As I said, he bites.” Alec glanced at Z. “You never did say if you’ve had your shots.”

Z sweetly gave Alec the two finger salute as he insisted, “He weighs twenty-five fucking stone! It was self-defence! I only bite when provoked. Or politely asked.” He grinned charmingly at Eve, all but waggling his eyebrows.

“I am _not_ —” Alec glared at Eve to stop her from laughing, though it didn’t work. “Buzz us in before I take down this bloody door.”

“It’s reinforced,” she said, finally putting her gun away so she could buzz them in.

“Only against amateurs,” Alec muttered. The door swung open, and Alec pushed Z into the airlock.

“Oi! I wasn’t done chatting,” Z groused.

“You definitely were.” Behind them, the door swung shut. “Twenty-five stone? Really?”

“You’re fucking twice my size, easy. So I rounded up.” Z looked away from Alec with an evil smirk as the inner door opened to reveal Mallory’s office. “Well... Posh and old-school as you can get. Why am I not the least fucking bit surprised?”

“Mallory’s not _that_ bad. James likes him,” Alec said with a shrug. “Not in _that_ way, but...”

“Your James _does_ like blokes that way, though, doesn’t he?” Z headed straight for the desk where Mallory’s computer was set up. He sounded sure of his assertion.

Alec sat down on the corner of the desk where he could keep a close eye on what Z was doing. “We do what’s necessary for the mission. Speaking of which, put these on,” he said, pulling nitrile gloves out of his jeans pocket. They’d been crammed in under his lockpicks, so they scattered everywhere. (Yes, suits had more pockets, but that didn’t mean he was going to wear one unless it was absolutely necessary.) He picked up two gloves and dropped them onto Z’s lap.

Z raised one eyebrow as he shook a glove out and started to pull it on. “And fucking safe sex practices were going to be necessary for this mission, how? You got some fucking condoms in your other pocket?”

“Don’t be an arse. Keep condoms in your pocket, and they break down. Fingerprints and DNA,” Alec said, stuffing the rest of the gloves back in his pocket. “I have lockpicks, a lighter, chewing gum, two razor blades...”

“My knife...” Z held his gloved hand out like a surgeon asking for a scalpel. “Actually, give me that fucking multitool.”

“If you stab me, I’ll be very angry with you,” Alec warned, digging into his other pocket for the multitool. It was too bad Q Branch hadn’t come up with a utility belt that wasn’t obvious, stupid-looking, or both. Old Boothroyd’s bum-bag phase had been brief but scarring.

“Noted.” Z smirked as he took the tool from Alec and looked back at the computer. “But you didn’t fucking answer my question about your other half. He plays for both sides, doesn’t he?”

“I said we do whatever’s necessary. Personal preference doesn’t come into it.” Alec shrugged, bracing a foot against Mallory’s chair. He shoved it back against the bookshelf, then leaned down to watch what Z was doing. “Romance in espionage is a myth. And Eve’s a field agent, or she was, so keep it in your pants around her.”

“What, you lot only get to shag someone when it’s for queen and country? That’s fucking kinky.” Z sat down on the floor and pulled the computer out from under the desk. “And really fucking sad, mate.”

“Only? Hardly. On missions —” Alec cut off as his mobile rang, and he slid down from the desk to take the phone out of his pocket. The number was unfamiliar, but with the country code for Spain. He answered, “Yeah?”

“Take down this number,” James said.

Alec’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Status, mate.”

“Secure and comfortable. You?”

“Is that him?” There was a thump somewhere on the bottom of the desk and Z poked his head up, wincing. “Is that him? Let me talk to Q.”

Alec waved Z to silence, saying, “Well enough. Following up on a lead.”

“Any details yet?”

“Nothing.” Z was looking like a neglected puppy, and Alec sighed. “I’m making Z work for his supper. Here, put yours on so mine can get back to work.”

After switching to speaker, James said, “Here. Check in and be quick about it.” His tone was brusque enough to make Alec blink in surprise. Well, that was one problem solved. James _wouldn’t_ be falling for whatever charms the traitor had after all, apparently.

Still, best not to be caught by surprise. Alec also turned on the speaker, then set the mobile on Mallory’s chair, prepared to slap away Z’s hand if he tried to grab for it.

“Are all Double O’s such voyeurs, or just our two?” Z groused at the phone, looking daggers at Alec, who shrugged.

“All,” he said, fully expecting James to say the same thing, but he stayed quiet. Apparently his day really hadn’t got any better, despite being “secure and comfortable,” whatever that meant.

An eloquent sigh came from the phone, followed by Q’s voice. It was quiet and resigned. “006 is right. And it’s safer this way. You all right?”

Z looked concerned. “Yeah. You?”

“Safe. Clean. Offline. About to eat dinner. What have you found?”

Z’s face cleared as he started talking about the mission. “Someone physically bypassed M’s security before they took him. It’s fucking _something._ We’re in and checking it out right now.”

“Good. Thank you.” The relief in Q’s voice was palpable. “That’s good news.”

“Q, mate, talk to me.”

“I’m fine. Just bored. It’s good to hear your voice.” Q’s voice was gentle and affectionate.

Z’s face softened to hear it. “Ditto. Tell that agent of yours I’ll stab him in the fucking throat if you don’t come back safe.”

Q chuckled. “Thanks, mate. Keep up the good fight.”

“Head up, eyes clear.” Z looked up at Alec, his brow furrowed thoughtfully, then ducked back under the desk.

Alec reached for the phone, though he didn’t switch it off speaker just yet. “And if it all falls apart, I’ve got this one in custody already. Even if the wanker does bite.”

After a rattle on the other end, James’ voice came, clear and quiet, asking, “Are you all right?”

Alec turned off the speaker and set the mobile to his ear. “Fine. I’ve got one of the vampires coming to see to it. So far, this one’s useful, but if we’re keeping him, we’re getting him a full battery of shots and maybe a bit of training.”

“Fuck off!” Z said from under the desk, and Alec kicked the drawers loudly.

“Just don’t let him out of your sight, Alec,” James said, only a hint of amusement in his voice. “If Q tries anything, we’ll only have yours left to interrogate.”

“Tell me how to do my job,” Alec muttered. James really was in a bad mood. “You’re at a resort, aren’t you? With a spa?” He didn’t really have to ask; he knew James’ tastes.

“Why?”

“Lock him in the room and go have a massage. When you tense up, you give yourself migraines.”

This time, James’ laugh was softer. “You’re right.”

“Of course, I’m right. I’m always bloody right. So go take care of yourself while the rabid hedgehog and I rescue Mallory so you can get back here before Personnel finds me.”

“Oh, Christ. What’d you do?”

“Threatened one of the guards down in SPI. Section 20 needs to switch to decaf. Touchy bastards.”

James sighed. “Try not to shoot up the whole bloody building, Alec.”

“No fun. Call me if you get bored, or I’ll call you when we’ve saved the day.” He rang off, then opened his contacts list to add James’ new number.

Z leaned out from under the desk again. “Oi! Q and I check in every four hours. That’s the fucking deal. Tell your boyfriend he has to fucking allow that.”

“Not my boyfriend. And we don’t have a deal. We have a domestic cyber-terrorist in MI6 custody who’s saving his arse and his brother’s by cooperating with a critical fucking investigation. Play your cards right, and you could be running our anti-cyber-terrorism division.” Alec snickered. “Stop biting, and I could probably get you a knighthood out of it.”

“Look, you berk, I’m the one that knows this shit. And I don’t help if I’m not dead clear on the fact that Q is fucking _safe._ Consistently, over time. I’ll find your precious M because it helps Q, not you. And I can do it faster than any fucking other person you know. Throw about the word ‘custody’ all you want, but I’m your chance of figuring this fucking shit out, so you give me what I need. And I _need_ to talk to Q every four hours.”

“Now who’s the married couple?” Alec asked wryly. He saved the phone number, then shoved the phone back in his pocket. “You find anything yet?”

“You going to let me talk to Q when I need to? Or are we going to sit and fucking stare at each other the rest of the night?”

“You just talked to him! Did I not let you talk to him? You can’t miss him already. Nobody likes _anyone_ that much.”

“Four hours from now. Start a fucking timer or you can climb under this fucking desk and do this yourself.”

Alec raised a brow. “You’re going to take the word of a psychopath?”

“Any time now, mate. I can fucking sit here and do nothing just as long as you can.”

“Fine,” Alec said, mostly because he heard the outer door buzz open. It was either Tanner, a Section 20 hit squad, or a vampire. For the first time, he actually hoped it was the latter. “Four hours, assuming we’re not both dead.”

“Done.” Z grinned like a maniac and ducked back under the desk, only to pop back out as the inner door opened.

Thankfully, it was one of the vampires from Medical — an older bloke with the requisite white lab coat and a startled expression as he took in Alec and what little he could see of Z.

“Over here, Doc,” Alec said, unbuttoning his shirt. He was tempted to get rid of his bulletproof vest, but not until he was sure there wasn’t a traitor here at MI6 — a traitor who could be anyone. At this point, he even suspected Eve. And the doctor, for that matter.

“What’s... going on?” the doctor asked, walking uncertainly forward.

Alec grinned and dropped his shirt on the desk. “New Help Desk tech. He’s fixing M’s email.” Z snorted in amusement and ducked back under the desk.

Thankfully, the doctor had probably been at MI6 long enough to know when to stop asking questions. Instead, he walked over to Alec, and his eyes narrowed critically. “That’s a human bite.”

“Yeah. Bloody Accounts Payable and their paperwork. Skip one form, and there’s hell to pay.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Thursday, 22 August 2013**

Alec was right, damn him. James needed to relax before he ended up shooting someone — namely Q — in a fit of bad temper. He kept his attention focused on the garden and ate mechanically, barely tasting the excellent sampling of tapas, and tried to think of a way out of this mess, but there wasn’t one.

Alec was working with Z — a known enemy. That meant he didn’t trust _anyone_ at MI6, which meant that James couldn’t call for a replacement. And worse, he couldn’t bring Q back and lock him in the MI6 basement. Again, that’d be tantamount to handing him over to the enemies he’d already planted in their midst.

Q was quiet and polite through most of the meal, sampling each of the dishes with apparent relish, always leaving enough for James to taste each one as well. Near the end of the meal, he spoke up, his voice gentle. “Is everything all right?”

James had a laundry list of things that were _not_ all right, but there was no point in reciting it. “Fine.”

“Is there anything I can do for you? I’d rather be of use if I can than sit around staring.”

“Such as?” James asked more flatly than he’d intended. He certainly wasn’t about to hand Q his laptop.

“I don’t know, really.” Q smiled wanly. “Rub your shoulders? You keep favouring the right one.”

He did? That was worrying — not that he’d hurt his shoulder, but that he _showed_ it. He knew better than to show that sort of vulnerability in front of an enemy. “No. I’ll have a professional look at it if necessary,” he said, wondering how late the spa was open.

“Of course. Silly of me to forget we’re at a resort.” Q started stacking empty plates, and James noticed his ears were pink.

“Leave that.” James considered refilling his wine glass before deciding he wanted something stronger. He got up, saying, “If you’re finished, I’ll call someone to clear the table.”

“Yes. Go ahead. Thank you, it was delicious.” Q stood up from the table and walked over to the pool. He crouched down to dip his fingers just under the surface, then pulled the cuffs of his twill trousers up over his knees and let his feet dangle into the water.

When James caught himself staring, he went back inside to call the front desk. They could stock the bar while they were taking care of dinner — and James could put in an order for both breakfast and a massage tomorrow.

 

~~~

 

“Fuck. Honestly?” Z groused as Alec led him to a conference room just outside Q Branch. “You know I’d be twelve fucking times faster than your minions at this. Just let me —”

“I am _not_ turning you loose in a department full of weapons, computers, and classified intel. Christ, I’m authorised to improvise, but not to be _that_ stupid,” Alec said with a laugh, blocking the door with his body. “Go sit down. I’ll bring in pizza shortly.”

“It’s about time management. I wouldn’t fucking be in there long enough to steal your top-fucking-secret weapon designs. Don’t you want M back before they’ve taken him to fucking pieces?” Z’s glare was all challenge but no threat.

“Yes. So stop wasting my time. Sit. Stay. And don’t try to pick the locks, either. There’s a guard outside who’ll shoot you, and that will complicate matters.”

“Fucking wanker. Bring pepperoni. None of that fucking sausage nonsense.” Z turned around and flopped into one of the chairs. “And something to bloody _do,_ since you made me leave my phone at home.”

Alec smirked. “I can always see if Eve’s free. Or would you prefer some random agent?”

It was as if his little hedgehog ears perked up. “Eve? Is that the one who pointed her fucking gun at me? Bring her. She’s fucking _fit._ ”

Alec’s grin sharpened. “You can share notes with James,” he said, opening the door.

“Fuck that. I just want to fucking share bodily fluids with her. I’d get off with her in a bloody heartbeat.” Z’s grin looked hungry.

“Assuming she let you live long enough.” Alec stepped into the hallway and closed the door on Z’s response, amusing as it probably was. He did have work to do, after all.

He scanned into Q Branch, which was still down in the tunnels under MI6, because the techs hated what little sunlight London had to offer. Thanks to Mallory’s kidnapping, Q Branch was as busy as the rest of MI6, so there was no shortage of techs for Alec to corral into investigating the wireless device Z had pulled out of Mallory’s computer. Then he had to mediate a brief argument between the forensics team, the materials analysis team, and the two nerds who wanted to figure out what the bloody thing did.

And because of chain-of-custody, he ended up escorting the device through the rounds, until he was finally able to hand it over to the two functionality nerds. Only then did he get around to phoning upstairs to send pizzas down, not just for Z but for everyone. Half these techs were three meals away from starvation.

Then, as a precaution, he asked for a delivery from the coffee kiosk in the lobby.

So it was a good two and a half hours before he finally returned to his seething, spiky prisoner. As soon as he opened the door, Z’s voice came from the middle of the room, though there was no sign of the hedgehog himself. “Fucking _finally!_ Where the fuck have you been, you arse?” Alec bent down to see the skinny little punk lying on his back under the conference table, twirling his multitool in his hand.

“Getting that bloody thing analysed. Having fun down there?” Alec asked, sliding the pizza and drinks carrier onto the top of the table. The doctors hadn’t _explicitly_ told him to avoid caffeine, but he was starting to feel a dangerously unstable buzz, so he’d actually ordered decaf coffee for himself, wretched stuff. He assumed Z had replaced his blood with caffeine, though, so he got regular coffee.

“As much fucking fun as possible in this corporate bloody prison. Come look at my handiwork and tell me what they fucking found.” Z pointed at the underside of the table with a proud grin.

With a shrug, Alec moved the pizza and drinks to the floor, then sat down. As Z attacked the box, ignoring the paper plates, Alec peered up at the table, where Z had been carving with the knife on his multitool. In amongst the swear words, Alec saw a complex wiring schematic, some of it crossed out and re-gouged, that looked very much like the guts of the wireless transmitter.

“There’s a signal boost circuit here,” he said, peeling the lid off his fake coffee, then using it to point at the appropriate spot in the diagram. “Had to be, to get past the thick walls.”

“Fuck. Right. Of course,” Z said with his mouth full as he took the knife to the design again. The point just touched wood when he paused and looked back at Alec. “You understand this stuff?”

“I could have a masters in electrical engineering, if three-quarters of my knowledge wasn’t classified.” Alec sniffed the coffee and wrinkled his nose. Supposedly there was no taste difference, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

Z pushed the pizza box towards Alec, chewing thoughtfully. “Q said you lot were smarter than you let on, but fuck. That’s bloody useful.”

“More useful to make people underestimate me at every turn,” Alec admitted, finally daring a sip. It wasn’t horrid, but it would be better with pizza. “Kind of like you do.”

“Too right.” Z grinned gleefully at Alec. “Though when it comes to negotiating fucking payment, you better believe I look like I’m worth every fucking quid.”

Alec snorted as he picked up one of the slices. “You sound like James. Speaking of which...” He leaned under the table and smacked Z’s arm.

“Ow, what? Fucking — Wait, what the fuck time is it?” Z grabbed at Alec’s retreating arm to tug up his sleeve and look at his watch. Unlike James, who wouldn’t touch a watch that was under ten thousand quid, Alec’s was the same one he’d had since the Royal Navy. It had faced far worse threats than Z.

“You owe me a shirt, you arse. And what do you care what time it is? You don’t get to fly off at midnight like some odd bat.”

“It’s almost time for a bloody check-in, you forgetful fuck.” Z looked closely at the bloodstained shirt Alec was wearing and said, “Suck on it. That’ll get the stain out.”

“I should let you do that,” Alec said wryly, sticking with pizza. “You look more than half-vampire. And you can wait until after we’ve had dinner.”

“It’s supposed to be your own fucking saliva. The enzymes in it lift the fucking stain because they’re the same as in the blood.” Z picked up another slice of pizza and added, “Besides, I’ve already had your fucking shirt in my mouth today. Eat up; I wanna call before they fucking go to bed.”

“It’s because of people like you that I don’t date. Always running a relationship by the bloody clock,” Alec complained around a bite of pizza. He figured Z didn’t give a damn about table manners. Plus he was starved.

“Look, mate. He’s been out there by himself, risking his life, for almost a fucking year. You find your anchors where you can. And what the fuck else am I good for?” Z chewed and swallowed the bite in his mouth before he added, “And your idiot is a fucking threat. I want to make sure Q is still in one piece.”

Interesting phrasing. “Out there by himself, risking his life...” As if he wasn’t a traitor on the run from MI6 — from _Alec_ — by his own choice.

Alec shrugged as though unconcerned, hiding the way his mind was racing, and casually asked, “Why aren’t you out there with him, then?”

Z looked sharply at him. “No bloody room for two. And a satellite needs something stable to orbit, for fuck’s sake.”

“Leaving you down the block from MI6 wasn’t exactly clever on his part. You could’ve been anywhere in the world.”

“But then I would have had to fucking uproot.” Z lay down again and looked up at his carvings. “And both of us skipping the country would have looked fucking suspicious.”

“Yes, because skipping out of MI6 with four hard drives full of secrets was subtle,” Alec drawled. He took another bite of pizza and deliberately studied the pie, as if trying to pick out his next slice. There was _something_ going on between Z and Q — some deeper conspiracy than an idiot drive to seize Silva’s power — and he would’ve figured it out by now, if not for the transatlantic flight and his worry for James.

But at least now he had breathing room. Z was contained, the evidence was being analysed, and James was as safe as he could be without Alec there to guard him. Plenty of time to figure things out, hopefully before the bullets started flying.

 

~~~

 

It was minutes from bed, and Q was stretching. He was standing at the foot of the bed, shirtless, wearing only James’ too-large track bottoms, and he was doing what looked like simple yoga poses. His body was lithe and flexible, and the waistband rode down to just past his hipbones.

Had he intentionally positioned himself right in James’ line-of-sight? He must have done. Ten months of evading MI6’s search teams meant he was clever. Aware.

Tempting as it was to stare — because James certainly was tempted — he lay down on his back and fixed his eyes on the dimly lit ceiling instead. He’d brushed his teeth and changed into boxers and a T-shirt, and then he’d quit the bedroom for the living room and the questionable comfort of the couch.

Even the excellent scotch provided by the hotel wasn’t as tempting as Q. Alone in the quiet darkness, James could almost delude himself into thinking the last ten months hadn’t happened — into imagining that he’d had the chance to talk to Q, to get to know him, to coax him into a long holiday on the romantic Costa del Sol.

When his phone rang, it was a blessing rather than an interruption. James put one hand on the gun resting beside him; with the other, he reached up to the phone on the end table. Just seeing Alec’s name on the screen was a comfort, but James’ smile disappeared almost as soon as it came. Q appeared in the doorway as if summoned, his eyes eagerly seeking out the phone.

“It’s them? Please, sir...”

James’ hand tightened on the gun. He swiped to answer the call and put the phone to his ear, glaring at Q in warning. “Alec?”

“Sounds like you missed me,” Alec said cheerfully.

With a relieved sigh, James asked, “Everything all right, then?”

“Delightful. How’s Spain?”

“I’ll let you know, once I’ve had a proper holiday,” James said flatly. “Why are you waking me up?”

“You were sleeping? He was sleeping, you arse.”

Distantly, James heard Z say, “Bullshit. Your man’s a fucking lying liar. Let me talk to Q.”

“Sod off,” Alec said.

“Can’t you keep him in line?” James asked, sitting up with a frown. He kicked aside the sheet he’d taken from the bedroom wardrobe and carried his gun to the bar in the corner of the living room.

“He’s like a lovesick teenager.”

“Q’s just as bad.” James set the gun down and turned to glance at Q, who was lurking just inside the living room. “You’d think they’ve only just begun dating.”

Alec barked out a laugh. “Z, tell me you’re not.”

Z’s angry voice got clearer — closer to Alec, it seemed. “Not what? Worried as fuck about my fucking brother? Fuck off and let me talk to him already.”

“His _what?_ ” James asked sharply before he could stop himself.

“Stay,” Alec said.

“Alec —”

“One second.”

James took a deep breath, trying to figure out if he’d misheard or misunderstood all of this. Z was Q’s _brother?_ That would explain the protectiveness, the concern, even the insistence on constant communication...

By the time James had that drink poured after all, Alec had closed a door — where was he? — and got back on the phone. “Didn’t you know?” Alec asked quietly.

James took a swallow without tasting, though it got his brain back online. Automatically, he tried to cover, saying, “You failed to mention. What else have you learned?”

Alec grunted suspiciously. “It was an inside job, so don’t trust anyone. We found a wireless transmitter in M’s computer. Security’s going through the access logs, but...”

“Logs can be changed.” James closed his eyes for a moment, then looked back at Q. “I can get answers.”

“And have enough of Q left intact to bring back to MI6?”

“Tanner wanted Q intact. He didn’t say anything about the brother,” James said, still watching Q intently. Q’s hands clenched, and he pressed his lips together.

“I don’t know,” Alec said sceptically. “I rather like him. If we can turn him, he’d be bloody useful.”

James smiled grimly. “Go ahead. Just let me know if he acts up, and I’ll take steps.”

“I’m not certain that’ll be necessary, but...” James could picture Alec’s shrug. “You want to let them talk? Mine’s getting tetchy.”

James took a sip, this time slowly enough to appreciate the taste. “I suppose, yes. We’ll talk more after.”

“First... Are you all right?”

“Mmm hmm. Go get him.”

“Right,” Alec said, sounding sceptical. He didn’t say anything else, though, and after a loud _click_ , like a door unlatching, he switched on the speakerphone.

“Fucking idiot Double O’s,” Z said, his voice loud despite being on speaker. “I hate all of you fuckers. Q?”

“007, actually,” James said smoothly. “You’re not being _difficult_ , are you?”

“I’m being bloody _helpful._ It’s you lot being difficult. Let me talk to Q.”

James was tempted to tell Z to ask nicely, but he suspected that _was_ nice, for Z. Instead, he switched on speaker and set the phone down on the bar. He beckoned Q and said, “Since your brother seems incapable of being nice, I’ll leave that to you.”

“I can be _very_ nice, if you’d let me,” Q said mildly, his eyes on the phone as he walked towards it. “Z? All right, mate?”

“Yeah. Your agent won’t fucking let me work on the transmitter we found, so I don’t know anything more. I’m fucking trying, though.”

 _Your_ agent, James thought. He had to mean Alec, but Alec wasn’t with Q — and he certainly wasn’t working for Q. So what the hell did he mean by that?

“Thank you. You’re perfect. I wish mine would let me help from here. Only a little while now, though.”

“I know. I want you home, but fuck. Not like this. Not with Mal—”

“I know,” Q interrupted. “It’s all right. Whatever the outcome.”

“Fuck. Q...”

“Be safe, Z. Do what he says, and help as you can.” Q’s voice was gentle and calm, but James noticed his hands were still clenched.

“I’m fucking _trying,_ I swear.”

“I know, love. Keep up the good fight.”

“Tell me he’s being a fucking gentleman. Tell me you’re all right.”

“I’m fine. Go on.”

“Head up, eyes clear.”

Q stepped back from the phone and nodded to James, murmuring, “Thank you.”

“Alec.” James picked up the mobile and turned off speaker.

After a click, Alec said quietly, “I’m here.”

“Alone?”

“I will be. Hold.” After the loud slam of a door, Alec asked, “You all right?”

James barely kept himself from sighing. He wanted to tell Alec everything he was feeling — not just about Q but about how damned frustrated he was by all this. How all he’d wanted was a holiday to get away from just this sort of chaos. How he was sick to death of not trusting anyone but Alec — not even himself.

“Yeah,” he finally said, looking at the gun and his glass. Both were tempting, but he left the glass where it was, and instead picked up the gun. Q was in the bedroom doorway; as soon as their eyes met, he disappeared back inside, leaving the door open as James had instructed earlier.

“Fucking liar,” Alec accused. “Can you speak freely?”

James huffed and sat down on the couch. “Hardly.”

“Well then, just listen.” Alec took a deep breath. “First, did you catch the slip? Mallory’s name?”

James frowned, and he had to run the conversation back in his mind. “Yes... Do you think they’re all in it together?”

“Mallory arranges to get himself ‘kidnapped’” — Alec pronounced the quotes — “and his cohort runs to you for protection? That’s either so brilliant that I can’t follow it or it’s a bloody stupid plot.”

“Which do you think?”

“The third option: that there’s something we don’t know.”

James eyed the open bedroom door. “We can find out.”

“Except Tanner doesn’t want you taking Q apart.”

“Yes. Why is that?”

“Good question.”

James leaned back and put his feet up on the coffee table. “Can you find out?”

“Working on it. Threats make him belligerent, so I’m working on rapport.”

Anyone else hearing that would think Alec was reading from a script. He was very good at getting people to underestimate him. “Anything I can do to help?”

“You’ve got his twin brother, and he’s a bloody overprotective arse if he thinks you might break Q’s fingernail.”

James laughed. “Feel free to use that,” he said, though without any particular heat. “I need a decent night’s sleep.”

“You? _You?_ You’re in a bloody Spanish resort, mate. I’m in the fucking basement of MI6 surrounded by scientists and a bitey punk hedgehog.”

“A _what?_ ”

“Imagine Q, only with piercings, spiked black hair, and rabies.”

This time, James laughed hard enough to make his head throb from the impending migraine. “Take a picture for me.”

“I’ll send you his visitors’ badge photo.”

“You _really_ brought him to HQ? How the hell did you get him in?”

“SPI.” Alec chuckled. “Which is why I’m going to have a nasty note in my Personnel file come Monday, if we don’t manage to save Mallory’s arse.”

“You brought a phone down to the detention wing?”

“What, detention wing? We’re in —” Alec paused. “Are you asking for Q’s benefit?”

“A little insurance never hurts,” James said, certain that Q was eavesdropping. “What are the chances that you can get here soon?”

“With or without Z? Are we still talking about him?”

“No. I don’t care.”

“I’ll see what I can do. With any luck, they haven’t got Mallory out of the country yet. Speaking of which, where’s your boat?”

“One of the private harbours.” James smiled. “Come down here, and we’ll bring her back to England together.”

Alec barked out a laugh. “No, because the minute you and I get on a boat, we’ll take up a life of piracy, and then we’ll be hunted by our own bloody navy.”

“True. But it’d be fun.”

“Oh, we’d _win_. But it’d be expensive for the navy.” More gently, Alec asked, “You going to be all right?”

“I think so. I’m going to sleep, so don’t bother me again until I call you in the morning.”

“Z’s going to bitch,” Alec warned.

“So shoot him.”

“You know I’m not going to do that until we know what the bloody hell is going on.”

“Does he?”

Alec huffed. “I’ll manage mine. You manage yours. Sleep well, James.”

“Don’t get bit,” James said, then rang off. He went to drop the mobile on the endtable, then thought better of it. The last thing he needed was Q getting twitchy in the middle of the night and trying to sneak away with it to call Z. Instead, he tucked it between the cushions next to his gun, then laid back down and dragged the sheet over himself.

Now all he had to do was get to sleep — _without_ thinking about Q being single after all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Friday, 23 August 2013**

A sharp rapping sound snapped Alec awake. He rolled over, fell off whatever the hell he’d been sleeping on, and landed on his feet, gun drawn, aimed at the door. His heart beat three times in rapid succession before he recognised the secure panel on the wall by the door.

MI6.

Then something hit his foot, and he jumped back, aiming down at the hand that emerged from under the conference table where he’d been sleeping. “Down here — Whoa, fuck. It’s Z. Don’t shoot.” Z’s eyes were wide, the whites visible in the dim light.

There was another knock on the door, and memories of last night — at least, Alec assumed it was last night — came back to him. He’d slept in worse places than an MI6 conference table, though he couldn’t recall them at the moment.

He holstered the gun at the small of his back, then leaned down to pick up a piece of cold pizza from the half-empty box on the floor. “Fucking shit,” he muttered, then took a bite and circled the conference table. A swipe of his card shut down the security protocols holding the door locked from the inside, and when he opened the door, he found himself staring down at one of Q Branch’s techs.

“Uh. Good morning, 006,” he said, taking in Alec’s rumpled state and the even sorrier state of the pizza slice in his hand.

“That’s a matter of perspective,” Alec said flatly.

The tech nodded and held up a comb-bound report, complete with glossy cover, as if it were a shield. “There was an email that you wanted this as soon as it was ready?”

“You made me wait while you —” Alec shook his head and swiped the report out of the tech’s hands. “Lovely work. Thanks,” he muttered, stepping back so he could kick the door closed.

Z emerged from under the conference table, looking significantly worse for wear, even though he’d slept on carpet with his jacket as a pillow. His shirt was coming apart at the seams, with washed-through holes worn in the fabric and the printed decal on the front shredding to pieces. Alec just glimpsed a swirl of brown tattooed around his arm, like the tail of some animal — a fox was his guess.

“What’s that? What time is it?” Z blinked enough times to bring his eyes into focus and peered at the report in Alec’s hands.

“Too fucking early,” Alec said around his bite of pizza. He stuck it in his mouth to free both hands and opened the report.

Someone had made a bloody _table of contents_. Christ, Q Branch didn’t have enough to do apparently. And the forensics geeks must have won the fight, because the fingerprint and DNA analysis reports came first, with wiring, functionality, and component tracing at the back.

Alec flipped through until he got to the wiring diagrams, then took hold of the report and ripped it in half, stretching the comb holding the pages together. He handed the back half to Z, then sat down on the floor — closest to the pizza — so he could review the forensics.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were page turning and the crunch of stale crusts. Then Z sat down on the floor next to Alec, reached for one of the last two slices, and said, “Either they’re all idiots down there, or something is totally fucked.”

“Why can’t it be both?” Alec asked grimly. The forensics report was a very wordy excuse for saying absolutely nothing of use. Apparently whoever had built and installed the damned transmitter had worn gloves.

“It fucking could, but I mean _purposefully_ fucked. Like, fucked _with._ Possibly between the time we handed that shit over to getting this fucking nonsense handed back to us.” Z stuffed the whole lower third of his slice of pizza in his mouth. Mouth full, he pointed to a page in his half of the report and mumbled, “Look at this.”

Alec dropped the useless forensics analysis and took the report. It was almost too dark to read under the table — he should’ve turned up the lights — but he could just make out the tiny font on the wiring diagram.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, frowning. “This wouldn’t have the power to get out from under M’s desk, much less out of his office. Where’s the power boost?”

“Not just that but the signalling’s off. There’s an entire section of noise reduction missing. I’d say fucking incompetence, but it’s the most informative part. Can’t do any kind of trace on the bugger without it.” Z had started to look worried.

“Really,” Alec muttered, trying to kick his brain into a higher gear. If _he_ could spot even one obvious flaw in the wiring and Z had spotted two more, why the fuck hadn’t the geeks noticed?

Or had they?

There was a traitor in MI6. A traitor who’d put a transmission device in Mallory’s computer. And Alec had an incomplete report in his hands — a report with inconsistencies that _his_ traitor, Z, had helpfully pointed out.

If Z was a traitor, he would’ve known about the transmitter _and_ done something about it while the vampire had been tending to Alec’s bite wound. The transmitter’s plastic casing had been fragile. One sharp pinch would’ve cracked the circuit board, damaged the chip, knocked off essential components. Then there would’ve been no need to put incomplete schematics into the report.

But Z had been _helping_ Alec all along. And helping Q. Which meant that this all went deeper than Alec and James both suspected.

Alec dropped the report and his pizza as he surged to his feet. He took the MI6-issued mobile from his pocket as he went for the door, trying to remember if he’d dismissed the Section 20 guard or not. Shit. _Shit_.

Wondering if they were going to get gunned down the second the door opened, he pulled up James’ contact information. “Got a pen? Or how good’s your memory?” he asked casually, hoping like hell that Z didn’t say anything that would rouse suspicions.

“Fucking perfect.” Z was on his feet, pizza forgotten. He looked at the phone in Alec’s hand and twitched his fingers at it.

Alec held out the mobile for Z to read the screen. “Memorise that.”

Z frowned but nodded, and he stared at the number for a few seconds before closing his eyes as if to lock it in place. “Got it.”

Holding up a hand for silence, Alec nodded and began dismantling the phone. He didn’t _know_ that it was compromised, but he couldn’t trust that it wasn’t. He tossed the battery into the corner of the room, then pulled the sim card out of its slot. It was tiny, but after he handed the mobile to Z, he managed to snap the sim card in half. Then he took the mobile back, dropped it, and smashed his foot down on top of it. Probably overkill, but he wasn’t in the mood to take unnecessary chances.

“If we get separated,” he said softly, looking directly at Z, “you get a burner phone, call that number, and say ‘Alec went dark. Bermuda protocol.’ James will tell you what to do.”

Z’s gaze flicked from the shattered mobile on the floor to Alec’s eyes, his worried frown deepening. “Why? What the fuck, Alec?”

 _“Think,”_ Alec snapped, pointing at the report for a heartbeat. Then he turned to the door and swiped his ID card through the security reader. “Get that report and your jacket.”

“ _What?_ We’ve fucking known it was an inside job. But —”

“It’s someone _here,_ ” Alec interrupted sharply. “Q Branch. And they know you’re here with me.”

“Fuck. Okay.” Z grabbed his jacket and put it on, then stuffed the report in an inside pocket. He shook himself, then looked up at Alec as if ready for anything. “Now what?”

“Now we get you out,” Alec said grimly, drawing his gun. “Do _exactly_ as I say. If you fuck around, you’re dead.”

“All right.” Z actually looked like he meant it.

“And stay behind me in case we run into trouble.”

Z winced but kept his cool, asking, “You got any _good_ news?”

Alec shrugged. “If the traitor’s got any rank or can forge an executive order, we may have all the Section 20 soldiers hunting for us, with live rounds.”

“Fucking fuck. This is why espionage is a fucking load of bollocks.” Z took a deep breath, let it out in a huff, then said, “Ready when you are, mate.”

 

~~~

 

A soft knock roused James in time for him to hear, “Room service, Mr. Sterling.”

After two blinks, James oriented himself enough to remember where he was and what he was doing. He got up off the thankfully comfortable couch, picked up the gun and mobile, then gathered the sheet over one arm. “Come in,” he called, then disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door with a quiet click.

He dropped the sheet on the floor and turned —

The bed was empty, with all the pillows shoved up against the headboard under the duvet. _Fucking shit._

Anger burned away the lingering fog of sleep, and he looked to the balcony door. Closed. Bathroom door, open. Was Q out on the balcony? Had he actually jumped down? That would’ve been suicide.

But James hadn’t taken more than two steps for the balcony door before a creak froze him in place. He turned and saw the lump of blanket-covered pillows move. Automatically, he aimed his gun, then reached out with his free hand. He used the edge of his mobile to flip the light switch.

A grunt and a shudder, and the duvet scrunched back on the far left side of the bed to reveal Q’s messy mop of hair. Then his nose poked out, his eyes squinting in the light. He must have curled up under the covers at the very top of the bed, his back against the pillow-covered headboard. “Bond?”

James relaxed fractionally, though the sounds of the room service attendants in the living room had him on alert. “Breakfast is here.”

Q sat up and brushed the hair out of his eyes. The covers fell down to his waist, baring his shoulders and chest. “Fuck. I slept hard.” He frowned at James and slowly started to raise his hands in surrender, saying, “Why the gun?

“Because you decided to hide from me,” James muttered, heading for the bathroom.

“I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to. I’m sorry...” Q trailed off and flopped back down onto the bed.

There was some nuance of behaviour James was missing, but he couldn’t be arsed to tease it out right now. Instead, he told Q to get dressed, then went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Ten minutes later, he came out feeling much more human, despite the harm the couch had done to his already strained back. He found Q sitting on the end of the bed, dressed in yesterday’s new clothes.

“Bathroom’s all yours,” James said, going to the wardrobe. His massage wasn’t until after lunch, so there was time to either go shopping or arrange for another delivery. He wasn’t sure how safe it was to be wandering the streets with Q in tow, and he definitely wasn’t letting Q out of his sight.

“Thanks.” The word was clipped, and Q moved quickly to the bathroom, closing the door fully and latching it.

James considered saying something to soothe Q’s ire, but then he thought better of it. Q was single, which made him twice as dangerous. There was nothing stopping James from trying to seduce him into spilling his secrets except what little James had in the way of ethics. Q’s defection had been a personal affront, especially after James had thought so highly of him.

Instead, after he dressed, he went out into the living room, where the attendants had laid out a table in the corner. James went right for the carafe of coffee next to the teapot, and he sipped as soon as he’d poured himself a mug, despite the heat. He loved Spanish coffee — one more reason to come back here on a proper holiday, after this mess was done.

Q joined him a few minutes later and poured himself some tea, then sat down opposite at the table. He murmured something into his cup that was too quiet for James to hear.

“What?” James paused in filling his plate to look over at him curiously.

“I’m sorry. It’s not easy to wake up with a gun pointed at you, but I honestly didn’t mean to make you think I’d fled.” Q looked down at his plate.

James shook his head. “You should know better than to be the least bit unpredictable on mission.” Then he corrected himself with a snort: “With an agent who’s on mission, at any rate.”

“I can’t sleep without something at my back. And I didn’t think you’d come in. I suppose that was silly — all your clothes are in there — but you don’t want me anywhere near...” Q shook his head and raised his teacup. “I’m not awake yet. Don’t listen to me.”

Already, James’ hostility was softening, just at the knowledge that Q was available, which was wrong.

Or was it? Because Alec was running about with Q’s brother, rather than tearing out his secrets in a spray of blood. And Tanner wanted Q not just alive but unharmed, like Saruman and his hobbits. Was it just for information Q had locked in his head? Did Tanner think he had a shot at turning Q back, offering him sanctuary in exchange for surrender and information?

“Why hasn’t Alec interrogated your brother?” James asked quietly, dropping the croissant he’d been buttering.

Q looked up at him and blinked. “How should I know? Maybe he has. You made it sound like that’s what he was planning last night, hanging it over my head to make me behave.”

James shook his head. “No. No, and _Tanner_ wants you alive and intact.” He stared at Q, who pressed his lips together. “And _you_ want Mallory rescued.”

“That’s to do with intel. Tanner wants mine, and I want Mallory to not put me out of a job by divulging his,” Q said matter-of-factly as he set down his teacup and reached for a chocolate croissant.

“Then why aren’t you trying to eliminate Mallory instead of hiding here, under my protection?” James asked, leaning forward. “To survive this long, you’d have to have your own bloody network — or someone _else_ warning you when we got too close. Someone with the authority to pull us off your trail with excuses like budgetary considerations and greater threats. And if you _and_ Mallory were both traitors, he would’ve kept you in house, where you’d be useful.”

“I... I don’t know what you’re talking about. I set Trevelyan on his trail because _I’m_ not an assassin; I deal in information.” Q was tearing his croissant into pieces.

“But you don’t, do you?” James asked, certain that he was correct. “Ten months. In _ten months_ , not one operation’s been compromised. Not one network’s been hacked with any codes you _supposedly_ stole. Ten months, and it wasn’t because you were finding the richest buyer you could. It’s because _you never left._ ”

“Then why do I feel like a fucking _exile—_ ” Q caught his breath, and his eyes went wide. Then he covered his face with his hands for a moment and took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping, resigned.

“Because you’re a bloody idiot,” James said, feeling unreasonably happy that Q _wasn’t_ a traitor. “Mallory was handling you personally, wasn’t he? With only Tanner as backup?”

Q uncovered his face and nodded as he spoke very softly: “Tanner didn’t know. Not until he’d got into M’s computer, I suppose. It was just M. And Z.”

“Stupid idea,” James said with a sigh, deliberately pushing his gun a few inches away from his plate. “I could’ve killed you.”

“Any number of people could have. It’s been a long ten months.” Q’s voice was tight and quiet.

“This was incredibly —”

James cut off, realising that if Q wasn’t a traitor, then he was still the Quartermaster of MI6. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he needed to be careful or he’d make an enemy of an exec. And thank God he hadn’t _tried_ anything with Q.

“This was incredibly reckless,” he said much more calmly. Professionally, even.

Q laughed softly, but the end of it came out a gasp, and his face looked pained. “Which fucking part? All the lying and stringing people along and being on the run and having no support except M... I’d have gone insane if it weren’t for Z.”

“Oh, Christ. Z,” James said, getting the mobile from his pocket. If Alec lost his temper or got just a little more suspicious...

“What? Is he in danger? What did 006 say last night? Trevelyan’s not going to hurt him, is he?” Q’s voice had gone sharp with panic, and his eyes were locked to the phone as James dialled.

“Is he going to be respectful, obedient, and helpful or a pain in the arse?” James asked dryly as he set the mobile to his ear. “Alec’s —”

After just one ring, the phone clicked, but Alec didn’t answer. Instead, a computerised voice said, “Leave a message,” followed by a beep. James frowned — Alec knew better than to ignore his calls — and hung up so he could dial again.

Q frowned as James put the phone back to his ear. “Fuck. I don’t know. I thought they were getting along. Alec can handle having the piss taken or he wouldn’t like you so much.”

“We’ve had our whole lives to get to that point,” James said grimly as he rang Alec again, only to end up routed to voicemail. Another day, he might’ve written it off as an anomaly, but not today. Not when Alec _knew_ James needed to be able to get in touch with him.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Q’s eyes were wide, and he sounded breathless.

James rang off, too wary to leave a message in case the mobile had been compromised. He set it down and looked across the table at Q. “Alec’s not answering.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Friday, 23 August 2013**

“Give me my laptop.”

Even after all these months Q still thought of that voice as his Quartermaster voice.  Of course, it was a sight more panicky than normal, but the sternness was there. And Bond, despite the last day or so, got up and headed for the bedroom, though he asked, “Are you _certain_ it’s secure?”

“Certain the _computer_ is secure. Z and I built it from scratch. But the internet here will be crap.” Thank God Bond was so smart that Q didn’t have to feel bad about abandoning his mission — the choice had been made for him. They had a much better chance working together on this.

Over the sound of the safe beeping, Bond said, “There’s no chance that one of your targets slipped a tracking program or device into it? That’s what Alec and” — he hesitated for the briefest moment — “Z found.”

 _Fuck._ And Q thought the last day and a half was complicated. His mind was racing, playing out all the options, but there were too many variables. Too many unknowns. Not that it felt any different from much of the past year. Except now Z was in danger as much as Q himself was. Probably more, because 006 might not have figured out that he was a friendly yet. Q was ten steps ahead, but tried to answer Bond’s question anyway. “No one’s touched my computer. That I know for certain.”

A minute later, Bond returned to the table and set down Q’s laptop and gun. Before Q could open the laptop, Bond held out a familiar micro SD card. “You probably want this back as well, hm?”

“Ah. Thank you.” Q smiled sheepishly at Bond. “But nothing on there will help me now. It has all the false intel for my mission.” He had backups in multiple places in the cloud, along with the intel he had been gathering, but a non-internet based source had come in handy in some of the places he’d been over the course of the mission.

Bond nodded and put the card down on the table. “Do I need to make alternate arrangements for a safehouse?”

Q paused with his hands on the lid of his computer and looked up at Bond. “I have no idea. What’s changed? Only 006 and Z know we’re here, right?” He was feeling panicked enough; adding a Double O’s paranoia on to his own might not end up very fruitful. He was proud to see his hands weren’t shaking. Not yet, at least.

“Only Alec himself, if I’m not mistaken,” Bond said calmly. “I’d feel better if we moved, though it’s _probably_ not necessary.”

“I feel no shame in deferring to the expert. Just get me secure internet. That’s all I care about.”

“Let me see what I can do.” Bond picked up his mobile and crossed the room, walking away from the breakfast table.

Q closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm the clamour in his mind. The relief of finally having Bond on his side was a soothing bass note, but the sharp, ever-present fear for M’s life took up the entire mid range, and the bright, brash panic about the welfare of Z — and 006 — was blaring loudly enough in the treble that there wasn’t room for anything else. He wouldn’t be any help if his attention was divided, however, so it was time to block out everything and focus.

He could do this. He’d been able to survive the past ten months, and all of that had simply been working up to this. Not that Q — or certainly M — had known that, exactly. They’d been trying to flush out their game, and it seemed as though they had succeeded. If only they’d been ready for the quarry to be a predator, not prey — and in their own bloody house.

He tried not to curse the loss of his wireless hotspot as he logged onto the hotel internet. He had to build up firewalls and other security measures simply to get onto his email and social media accounts, just to be safe.

Bond returned, frowning down at the mobile in his hand. “Alec’s still not answering. He knows approximately where we are, though, so I’d rather remain here unless it’s a clear danger.”

“I’ve just now got up and running.” Q looked up at Bond and had a flash of memory from working together on the Silva case. Few Double O’s were both smart enough and respectful enough to treat Q like an equal. It had been one of the things about Bond that Q found most attractive. He set aside the memory to focus on the subject at hand. “Can he track you? And if so, would he bring Z when he came?”

“Let’s hope he _doesn’t_ track the phone,” Bond said flatly.

“Why?”

“Because he’d have Q Branch techs do the tracking. And if there really is an insider there...”

“Fuck that. He’d have Z do it. Quicker. More secure.”

Bond looked steadily at Q, then smiled. “I hope so.”

Q’s heart cracked. That was the famous Double O facade. The one they lied through to make people feel safe. Bond had no faith that Z would get out of this intact, and his ruin could very well be at Trevelyan’s hands. But no matter what, it would be Q’s fault. Everything in him froze for several seconds. Then he swallowed and blinked slowly, nodding once. “I see.”

Bond rested his hand on Q’s shoulder and said, in a comforting tone, “I didn’t tell you before, for obvious reasons, but he likes your brother. He even mentioned bringing Z into MI6’s service.”

Q scoffed. “Don’t. I can take the truth. Or at least don’t insult me with something so outrageous. No one in their right mind would want Z at MI6.”

“Did you just accuse Alec of being in his right mind?” Bond laughed quietly. “If Z is half as talented as you, he could be useful. At least, Alec thinks so.”

“Then maybe that’s why they’re not answering the phone. Because someone _else_ thinks so too.” Q stared at the computer screen, realising how useless it was without a faster, more secure connection. And if the only way they could help was from afar, that, above all, was a necessity. “Get me a secure hotspot.”

Bond drew his hand back, and Q immediately missed its warmth. “I’d prefer not to leave you unprotected.”

“I need it. I’ll be safe here.” Q touched his gun on the table next to his laptop. “But I can’t do anything without a secure connection, and I won’t sit idle while they’re...” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. “I should have been helping this whole time. M’s been missing for over forty hours. Please, Bond.”

“All right, Q,” Bond said with a nod. “I’m putting out the Do Not Disturb sign. Shoot anyone who comes in, even if they claim to be from the hotel. When I come back, I’ll knock twice, pause, then knock twice again, so try not to shoot me. Understand?”

It felt like an order — and a plan of action. Q had been running on adrenaline and instinct for the past two days, and Bond’s voice fell over him like a heavy blanket. The trust they’d forged almost a year ago was still intact, and it was reinforced with the knowledge that Bond — of his own volition — was trying to keep Q safe. He didn’t have to make any decisions; he just had to comply. “Yes, sir.”

After a momentary hesitation, almost so brief that Q thought he’d imagined it, Bond put a hand on his shoulder again. Then he turned and walked away, pausing only to take the Do Not Disturb sign from the doorknob before he slipped out, saying, “And bolt the door behind me.”

Q got up and did just that. Then he sat back down at his computer, his fingers resting lightly on the home keys, and reminded himself to breathe. He might have lost both Mallory and Z for the time being, but at least he wasn’t on his own.

 

~~~

 

If the enemy, whoever the hell they were, didn’t kill Mallory, James bloody well might. He had no idea what Mallory had told Q regarding mission secrecy, but the last day and a half could have been prevented if Q had just been _honest_.

The irony of a spy expecting honesty from a government executive wasn’t lost on James, but really. Q could’ve got himself killed simply by accident a dozen or more times. At the very least, James had no idea why he hadn’t done serious harm to Q to ensure his compliance, and to hell with Tanner’s orders about Q’s safety.

Tanner. _He_ could’ve bloody well said something. In Mallory’s absence, the Chief of Staff was the de facto head of MI6, with full war powers. He had ordered Bond not to harm Q, but a suggestion to keep anyone _else_ from harming the Quartermaster would’ve gone a long way in ensuring Q’s safety.

Not that James was going to trust Q to _anyone_ after all this. Well, anyone except for Alec. Possibly this brother of Q’s, if he proved competent at something other than amusing Alec.

Christ, sometimes James hated espionage. In the name of cleaning house, Mallory had sent an unprepared executive undercover and in doing so had apparently opened the door for even _more_ traitors in MI6’s ranks. James was hard-pressed to find a reason not to just tell Alec to blow up the whole bloody building, other than the fact that he _still_ wasn’t answering his damned phone.

By the time James returned to the resort two hours later, he was worried. Legitimately, deeply worried. In a circumstance like this, Alec would contact him with information as soon as possible. Information was the key to survival. To success. For Alec to be out of touch for this long meant he was on the run. And that tempted James to rush back to England to help — except that Alec might well be thinking the same thing about him.

No, for now, staying put was the better choice. Richard Sterling and his pretty pet were safe at the resort. Even better, Alec knew James’ tastes. If he really was on the way, he’d find the _Olivia May_ , then track them here.

After two sets of two knocks, Q unbolted the door to the suite. As soon as the door swung open, James met Q’s eyes, searching for any subtle, silent hint that he was in trouble or that someone else was present. All James saw, though, was anxiety — over his brother, presumably — mixed with relief.

As soon as James was inside, Q bolted the door. James went right to the breakfast table, which Q wisely hadn’t called room service to clear. “Two more mobiles, two hotspots,” James said as he set the bag down beside Q’s laptop. Then he went for the croissants, hoping they hadn’t gone stale yet. Skipping breakfast and all but two sips of coffee had done nothing for him. “I also picked up a fast charger and spare batteries.”

“Brilliant.” Q rifled through the bag and pulled out a hotspot, then attacked the packaging. “I’ve been sat here twiddling my thumbs, basically. Not much I can do on this connection. No word?”

“Not yet,” James said, trying to sound calm. He picked up his now-cold mug and went to empty it in the sink. “Alec will get in touch as soon as it’s safe. For now, trust him.”

“I’m attempting to. Z will leave me breadcrumbs if he can get online at all, even if it’s not safe. We’ve been in constant contact since I left.” Q turned on the device and let it cycle through, then turned his attention to his computer.

It could be complicated if this need for contact turned into something like co-dependency, but that was a problem for another time. For now, James advised, “Plug it in. There’s minimal charge on everything.”

“There’s a power strip in my bag. May I go fetch it?”

Why was he asking? Was he that anxious about his safety? Just how irrational did he think James was?

Hiding a sigh, James nodded. “We’re safe here. We should even be safe to move about the resort, if you’d like.” Then he winced and looked at his mobile. “You’re also welcome to my massage appointment in a few hours.”

“Right. Not a prisoner any longer. Sorry.” Q got up quickly and went into the bedroom. He was back a moment later with the laptop bag, saying, “You need that massage for your shoulder. And I need to work.” He knelt down on the floor and started plugging in all the chargers and power cords.

That was a clear dismissal. James filled a mug, took the last croissant and a muffin of questionable species, and then went to sit on the patio until Q found him a target to kill or a threat to neutralise.

 

~~~

 

Q’s deconstructed croissant was forgotten as he set up his secure connection and started to run his facial recognition programs and keyword searches through any and all media he could get his electronic fingers on. He went through the pot of tea and started in on the rest of the coffee until his focus went jittery. He commandeered Bond’s mobile to pick apart every last bit of data he could glean from Trevelyan’s number, which amounted to nothing. Though Q couldn’t get into the most secure networks with his current access, as far as he could tell, Trevelyan’s mobile wasn’t even powered on.

Z’s was no more helpful even though it was on. It rang until it went to voicemail, and when Q tracked the GPS on it, he found it was left at Z’s flat. Which meant they didn’t think that was a safe location to go back to.

The longer he went without an alert on any of his searches, the more nervous he got — and the wilder his suppositions got. He started casting his net wider, which slowed everything down, but he couldn’t leave out any potential avenues.

This wasn’t the quiet descent into focus and efficiency that coding had offered in his younger days, or even the detail-oriented scanning of reports and analyses of Q Branch. It was drumming his fingers on the table as every path he went down came up empty. It was torment. Because on the other side of it were the whereabouts of three people he desperately needed to find. To lose any one of them would be a tragedy. All three at once was unthinkable. And yet, he could think of nothing else.

The light changed around him, and Bond came and went, and Q couldn’t stop looking at a screen that gave him nothing. _Where were they?_

“Quartermaster!”

Bond’s commanding voice cut through the fog of worry and tugged Q’s consciousness back to his surroundings. The room was getting afternoon sun, and Bond’s face had the glow of exercise on it — or possibly that massage. Q sat up straight and cracked his back, blinking to focus at a distance of greater than half a metre. “What?”

“You can’t live off radiation. Your laptop’s not powerful enough. Get up. I’m feeding you lunch.”

“I’m literally sat at a dining table, where would you have me go? Besides, caffeine and sugar work well enough.” Q looked back at the uncooperative screen, cracking his neck twice by tilting it to either side.

“Not nearly as well as sashimi and teppan,” Bond said, beckoning Q to stand. “Or are you going to insist on cooked fish?”

“I won’t insist on anything.” Q started to stand, then looked around and noticed there wasn’t a new room service tray. Nor had the tiny corner of his mind left for situational awareness picked up on anyone knocking or entering, other than Bond. “Where... Are we _leaving_ the suite?”

Bond smiled faintly and pointed to the bedroom. “I picked up another shirt and shoes for you. I estimated your size, and the shops here are limited. If you’d like, we can find something more suitable this evening.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Thank you.” Q hesitated before heading to the bedroom. He left the door open as he changed his shirt and put on the shoes. “I can’t leave until I’ve routed alerts to one of those mobiles.”

“We still have my mobile,” Bond said in a reasonable tone. “If they can, that’s what they’ll call first.”

“Yes, but these alerts are for facial recognition and keyword searches. Breadcrumbs. In case they can’t call.” Q finished tying one shoe and looked up at Bond. “Well done. These fit just fine.”

“Do you need to do that now?” Bond asked, a hint of sternness coming into his voice.

Q frowned at him, wondering how it wasn’t clear. “Yes. Then I can take it with us and get the alerts while we’re gone. That’s the whole point.”

“How long will it take?”

“Not long. Why? Are we in a hurry?” Q finished tying his other shoe and stood.

“Not if you’re quick about it.” Bond stepped out of the doorway.

Q smiled at him as he passed, heading to the power strip to grab a mobile. “Give us just a minute.” He set a program to route the facial recognition on the computer to the mobile number, trying not to get distracted with the settings for some of the searches. If he could refine just a few more key parameters, he could raise the accuracy by another three or four per cent —

_“Q.”_

“Yes, sir. Sorry. It’s almost done...” Q didn’t look up from the screen but he inched his rear off the seat, still focused on his program even as he stood up.

Bond slid the chair back, then took hold of Q’s arm to firmly turn him away from the computer, and Q found himself just inches away from bright blue eyes and a white polo shirt that was perfectly fitted to show off Bond’s tanned, muscular arms. “Done?” Bond asked without letting go of Q’s arm.

Q’s eyes were absurdly riveted to the hollow of Bond’s throat — something he rarely got to see given all the suits and ties Bond normally wore. The dip of it made him swallow before he could answer, “Yes. All yours.” He tried to smile as he shoved the mobile into the pocket of his trousers, but it might have come off a wince.

Bond’s smile stole his breath. “Do you remember your name?”

That should have been an odd question, but after the ten months Q had had, it sadly wasn’t. He nodded. “Andrew.”

“Good. I’ll need to keep you close. This won’t be uncomfortable, will it?” Bond asked, starting for the door to the hallway.

There was nothing for it but to be impelled along — Bond’s firm grip didn’t leave room for pulling away without some effort, but Q had no desire to do so. “Not at all.”

It felt good to not have to think about where they were headed and just trust to Bond to keep them safe. It left his mind free to think of other things — at least until Bond paused at the door so he could say, “Touch me all you like — it’ll be in character — but watch for the gun at my back. Try not to let anyone see it under my shirt.”

 _Right. Fuck._ Their cover, at least as Q understood it by the way Bond had spoken yesterday, was that he was Richard Sterling’s... boy-toy. That was awkward. Q wasn’t physically affectionate with _anyone_ in public, except when Z demanded hugs. How was he going to be able to play this? And with someone as deeply attractive as James Bond? How did anyone expect him to _eat_ in this situation? “Yes, all right. I’ll remember.”

“And if you need me to back off, just call me Mr Sterling instead of Richard, and I will.”

It was like a bloody safeword. Q tried to smile and say, “Thanks,” but it wasn’t more than a whisper. He attempted to steer his mind clear of the absolutely inappropriate direction it wanted to head, and only managed to clear his throat and say, “Thank you, Richard.”

Though Bond didn’t say anything in response, his hand tightened for a moment. In warning? Or was it possessiveness?

Either way, Bond didn’t let go of him until they’d walked all the way through the gorgeous resort and were seated at the sushi bar, where every hint of the deadly agent dropped away, leaving only a charming, confident man who had Q utterly captivated. He laughingly coaxed Q into trying everything, gently corrected his Japanese pronunciation, and more than once used his own chopsticks to lift a sliver of fish to Q’s mouth.

By the time one of the servers led them from the bar to their teppan table, where a private chef cooked their lunch to order — to Bond’s order, actually — Q was relaxed enough to genuinely enjoy himself, and buzzing slightly with the dizzying amount of attention Bond was paying him. He even found he could go a full minute or two without worrying about Z — or 006 or Mallory. The food was delicious and he was truly hungry, but the thing that filled him the most was to hear his name in Bond’s mouth — his given name, from childhood. It was disorienting but oddly comforting. Though, the longer it went on, the harder it became for Q to remember to call Bond “Richard” and not James.

“Andrew?”

“Yes, Richard?” Q hadn’t got the hang of casually touching Bond, but they were sitting close enough that the heat of Bond’s thigh pressing against his commanded at least half of his focus.

Bond’s smile turned sly and knowing. “Did you want dessert here” — he leaned in a little closer and dropped his voice to just above a whisper, lips inches from Q’s ear — “or in the room?”

Q’s brain was so scrambled, it took a moment to come back online. In that moment, Q was almost certain Bond was serious about backing up the innuendo in his question, but the next brought the reminder that Q should get back to work. It didn’t mean he wasn’t flushed and feeling legitimately bashful when he looked down at the table and murmured, “The room, please.”

Bond’s low, wicked laugh made Q flush all the hotter, and he barely heard Bond settle their bill and compliment the chef. And then Bond was on his feet, wrapping his arm around Q’s body to pull him close and say, “Let’s go, pet.”

Q’s stomach flipped, and a delicious chill ran over him at the endearment. He couldn’t help responding to it, “Yes, sir.” The words suddenly felt different in his mouth, like a promise, and he was shocked by the shift.

Again, Bond’s arm tightened, but this time he didn’t let go. He escorted Q out of the restaurant and through the halls, keeping Q tucked close to his side. Q fell into step naturally and knew better than to pull away — or maybe he just didn’t want to.

The closer they got to the suite, the more nervous he got, and the more he tried to distract himself with thoughts of his work. That wasn’t supposed to be the distraction, however. _Bond_ was the distraction, and no matter how enticing he was, paying attention to him wouldn’t save their friends. And besides, this wasn’t even Bond wrapped around him. It was Richard Sterling.

When they got back to the room and were safely inside, Bond let go of him and checked the bedroom and balcony. The Do Not Disturb sign was still on the door, so room service hadn’t come in — at least, Q assumed they hadn’t. The computer didn’t look like it had been disturbed, though that was probably something he should have considered. Granted, he hadn’t been considering much when they’d left apart from the strength of Bond’s arm on his.

Now that Bond wasn’t distractingly close, Q could both breathe and think. And the only subject worth thinking about was how to find Z and Trevelyan. So he sat right back down in front of the computer to check the status of his searches. Before Bond was even back from checking the room, Q was already coming up with new parameters to try.

And then Bond snuck up behind Q and leaned down, one hand on the back of his chair, the other hand on the table. “Did you want me to make an appointment for you at the spa?” he asked quietly, even seriously.

Surprised at the offer, Q turned to look at him, their faces closer than he expected. “Me? Why?”

“You’ve been on the run ten months, Q,” Bond said gently. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself. You’re all tension and knots, and that won’t help your concentration.”

“Being overly pampered won’t either. Besides, there’s no time for all that. Let’s make sure everyone’s safe first; then we can book a spa day.” Q couldn’t help but smile at the image of sharing a spa appointment with Bond.

For a moment, Q thought Bond might object. But then he stood back up and said, “I’ll try calling again.”

“I’m almost certain his mobile is off. Or dead.”

“I know. But do you have anything else you want me to do?” Bond asked wryly as he headed for the bedroom.

Q couldn’t very well say: _come back and stand close to me because it feels really good to have you nearby._ That was ridiculous. Didn’t change what was true. Instead, he asked, “Help me brainstorm?”

Bond stopped in the bedroom doorway and looked back, brows raised in surprise. “I was under the impression Q Branch has a strict non-interference policy. Especially when it comes to Double O’s who are ‘helping’,” he said, lips twitching up in a brief smile.

Giving him a wry smile, Q responded, “I’m not Q Branch. And we work well together — we proved that when tracking down Silva.” He beckoned Bond to come back to him. “I’m running out of ideas, and you know 006’s methods. Maybe you can come up with something I’ve missed?”

“All right.” Bond sat down, seeming pleased to have been asked. He didn’t put his arm around the back of Q’s chair, though he did lean in close enough to see the laptop screen. “Let’s see what you’ve got so far.”

“Here. Facial recognition for them both, searching social media sites — Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, even Tumblr and Reddit, not to mention Flickr, Foursquare, Pinterest, and YouTube.”

“All on that laptop?”

Q shook his head, glad he hadn’t underestimated Bond again. There’d been stories of Bond hacking the old M’s computers and secure accounts, and nobody knew how he’d done it. The techs in Q Branch had talked about M violating protocol and writing down her login information, but Q had suspected Bond was far more clever than he seemed at first glance. After Silva, he knew it.

“I’m running this off Z’s servers, since the laptop isn’t powerful enough for this type of processing.”

Bond nodded, attention fixed on the screen. “They’ll be safe. You know that, right?” he asked quietly as he reached for the touchpad so he could scroll.

“I know.” For once, Q felt like a Double O, wearing a neutral mask and lying for someone’s comfort, but he had been struck with Bond’s utter faith in Trevelyan, and he didn’t want to undermine it. Not that it was actually possible — that seemed like trying to shake Q’s faith in Z. So Q comforted himself with the future tense. However 006 and Z were at the moment, they were _going_ to be safe once Q and Bond found them.


	12. Chapter 12

**Friday, 23 August 2013**

“Fuck you, you fucking fuck. Just because you’re wearing fucking kevlar doesn’t mean you can pretend to be a human fucking shield for _fuck’s_ sake.” Z was fucking irate. Seeing red. His fucking Double-O-Fucknut had tried to stop a bullet for him, and the fucking arse just blew it off like it was nothing, even though he was bleeding low on his right side, as if this wasn’t a big fucking deal.

“Better me than you,” Alec said bluntly, stalking around the studio like a trapped tiger. He had his left hand pressed to the ill-fitting jacket he’d stolen when he’d also boosted a car, neat as anything. There wasn’t much room for anyone to hide in this tiny flat — loo, wardrobe, under the bed — but Alec checked anyway, without putting away the gun in his right hand.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Z was doing his damnedest not to shake. For all the ridiculous situations he’d got himself in, he’d never been in a gunfight. Not like that. He had streaks of blood all over himself because Alec wouldn’t stop covering him, trying to keep him safe with all the guards on their arses and CCTV cameras everywhere. They’d spent three fucking hours in the Underground and even longer walking the streets before Alec had finally stolen a car, and then he’d still insisted on abandoning it far from the flat.

Z needed to breathe and clean up and take a look at that wound, even if it made his throat close just to think about it. It had been hours since Alec had got shot, and Z was worried about blood loss. And to make matters worse Alec hadn’t stopped pacing. The place was too fucking small for that, and it was driving Z barmy. “Fucking — sit the fuck _down,_ you fuck.”

“Don’t you have a landline?” Alec demanded. He finally holstered his gun, thankfully, though the motion made his stolen jacket gape open, showing his bloody shirt all over again. “We need to warn James.”

“You need to stop fucking bleeding, mate, before you pass out. Because I’m not fucking carrying your fat arse anywhere.” Z clenched his hands into fists and went to find something to clean up the blood. He called out to Alec, “So sit the fuck down.”

“I’m not going to pass out.” The bastard had the gall to sound amused. “I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t fucking care if you’ve lost your head and had it sewn the fuck back on. Sit the fuck down and let me look at that shit.” Z came back with a damp flannel to find Alec was still too stubborn to actually sit on the futon and try to stop bleeding everywhere. Instead, he was crouched by the empty computer desk, looking at the wall connections underneath.

“You’ve got a jack for a landline,” he complained, looking back at Z.

“I don’t have a _phone_ here. Get that through your fucking thick-as-fuck skull.” Z shoved Alec’s shoulder and continued, “And sit the fuck down. You’re bleeding everywhere, and it’s fucking disgusting.”

“Aren’t you just bloody charming,” Alec muttered, though he got out from under the desk with a grunt of effort. He peeled the jacket off one sleeve at a time, dropped it on the floor, and then started towards the futon. He reached up to take off his shirt, only to freeze. “Bugger. Help me out here,” he said, gingerly lowering his arm.

“What is it?” The fucking idiot cowboy with the hero complex had just asked for help. More than anything else, _that_ made Z quail. He reached out and started to gently pull off the shirt, only to decide shears would be easier. The bloody thing was ruined already. “Is it that fucking side wound or did you get hit somewhere else, too?”

“The blood’s nothing. The bullet didn’t even lodge inside me,” Alec said as if that should be somehow cheering.

Z snorted as he extracted a pair of medical shears from the bedside table. “I’m not even going to fucking ask how many bullet wounds you’ve suffered.”

“At least you keep safety shears close to hand for your bondage games,” Alec said with a sharp laugh that cut off short. “Does Q know about your tastes? Oh, bugger. He doesn’t _share_ them, does he?”

“Of course.” Z couldn’t help but grin maniacally as he took hold of the hem of Alec’s shirt. “Now fucking hold still.”

“Don’t nick the vest. It’s all the protection we have,” Alec said, watching as Z started cutting. “Tell me this is a _proper_ safehouse, with water and tinned food and decent telly.”

“Basically. I’ve used it as a place to bring home anonymous fucks, so it’s minimally stocked, but it’s really just waiting for Q to fucking come home already.” The shears snipped cleanly through Alec’s collar, and Z moved them to the cuff to make a second cut up the sleeve.

“James will be expecting us to stay put and keep investigating or come to him. We need to get in contact with him.” He shot Z a flat glare. “I’m really not going to bleed to death, you know. And we _need_ a phone. Though, shit. It’s no safer for you to go out than me.”

Once Z finished the second cut, he was able to pull the shirt off Alec without risking further damage. The bulletproof vest was bulky and black, torn open about halfway down Alec’s right side, right under one of the velcro straps.

“Look, if you need to hear his voice that fucking badly, I’ll change and go get you a fucking burner. But I’m fucking bandaging _this_ first.” He gestured at the blood seeping out from under the bulletproof vest. “And _then_ I’m checking in with Q.”

“It’s just a couple of cracked ribs,” Alec said over the sound of tearing velcro. As soon as the vest opened, revealing a white shirt that had gone red with blood, he let out a relieved sigh. “I hate wearing those things in summer.”

“Fucking hell.” Z couldn’t hide a sigh of relief at hearing the phrase ‘cracked ribs’ and seeing how localised the bleeding was. As he lifted the heavy vest over Alec’s head, he asked, “How the fuck did you _sleep_ in this?”

“Practise. A soldier learns to sleep anywhere.” Alec reached for the shears with his left hand, and Z smacked it hard enough to sting.

“Don’t fucking touch.” Z didn’t even bat an eyelash at using his dom voice on his stroppy idiot agent as he took up the shears to start cutting through the last layer of fabric. He was impatient to take care of the wound beneath so he could contact Q.

“I was wrong. You don’t belong in IT. You belong in Medical with the fucking vampires,” Alec complained, trying to see the wound without bending, which obviously caused him pain. “You did good, you know.”

Surprised, Z paused and looked up at Alec’s face. “I got you fucking shot.”

“You _didn’t_ do anything stupid or heroic. And you didn’t puke or pass out at the first sight of blood.”

“Fucking felt like it,” Z muttered as he finally stripped off the bloody cotton shirt from the wound. “Fuck. Still do. Look at that. That’s not a fucking scratch, you arse.”

“Don’t bandage it. I need a damned shower.”

“Yeah, you fucking do. Go ahead; there are towels. I don’t fucking care if they get bloody — they’re all white, so I can bleach the fuck out of them.” Z waved Alec toward the loo, then yelled after him. “But I’m fucking dressing it when you get out. That shit needs a pressure bandage.”

“I’m going to assume you have painkillers of some sort,” Alec shouted back, leaving the door open as he started the shower.

“In the medicine cabinet. Go fucking easy on the prescription shit. I know you weigh a metric tonne, but those fuckers aren’t child’s play,” Z called back as he searched for the iPad he was sure he’d left lying around somewhere.

“Paracetamol only,” Alec said with a grunt. “I’m not leaving you undefended.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Z frowned at the grunt more than the overprotective idiocy. He approached the door and knocked as he pushed it slightly more open to look in. Alec was sitting on the closed toilet, left hand pressed to the wound on his side while he tried to reach his own boots with the other. “What — fuck. Honestly... Just ask, you fucking knob.” Z set the iPad on the vanity and crouched down to untie the bootlaces.

“You’ve got better things to do,” Alec said as he picked up the iPad with his left hand, heedless of the blood. “Does this have signal?”

“Of course it fucking does. Don’t smear your bloody fingers all over it,” Z grumbled as he tugged off the first boot.

Alec swiped his bloody hand over his jeans, which didn’t help, and then pressed the power button. “Why didn’t you tell me? I can get a message to James this way.”

“Because you were fucking obsessed with a god damned _phone jack_ and wouldn’t bloody listen. I was about to leave a fucking note for Q, except you can’t do one fucking thing by yourself. Want me to scrub your back, too?” Z stood up as he dropped the second boot onto the bathmat.

“Sorry to crush your hopes, love, but you’re not my type,” Alec said dryly.

“Thank fucking God and all the angels in heaven,” Z sighed with a smirk as he made a grab for his iPad, and Alec let him have it.

“After I shower, you’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on.” Alec stood up with another grunt. “Now get the hell out so I can drop my trousers.”

“Fine. I’ll scavenge for some fucking nosh. If nothing else, there’s always tea and biscuits.” On the way out, Z pulled the door until it was open only a crack. He had a feeling Alec wouldn’t abide it being closed fully. Truth be told, after their disastrous escape earlier, having Alec within earshot made Z feel more secure, as well.

 

~~~

 

“That search will run in the background, won’t it?” James asked, even though he knew the answer. He couldn’t just demand use of Q’s computer, now that they were back to being agent and executive — no matter how inappropriate his cover story had forced him to be at lunch.

“Of course. Anything you think might give us a lead, honestly.” Q seemed slightly more calm than he’d been before lunch.

“May I?” James asked, reaching for the computer. “Alec and I set up a system for passing messages long ago. Haven’t needed it in years, but he might think of it.”

“By all means.” Q pushed the laptop over to James and sighed. “I’ve been trying to think which way Z will choose of getting in touch, given we’ve used so many over the years.”

“It seems we have the advantage, then,” James muttered as he opened a new tab in the browser. It took a moment’s concentration for him to remember the login information for the Facebook account he never touched. “Admittedly, since gaining Double O status, we’ve had more secure ways to communicate, but sometimes insecure and outdated will do just fine.”

“ _You_ have a Facebook account?” Q looked as though he was trying not to smile and failing miserably. “That’s against regs, you know.”

James snorted. “Got it before the rule went into effect, not that such things ever bothered us,” he said bluntly as he finally logged in. Impatiently, he shut down all of Facebook’s notices and demands for him to add schools and friends. “Sodding — _This_ is why I wouldn’t bother using it in anything but an emergency.”

“Too much trouble keeping up with all your friends and admirers?” Q teased, pointing to his friend list. There was only one name.

“Half the time, he’s sleeping on my bloody couch,” James said, finally gaining access to his wall. The last message was from 2009, which meant no one had been bored enough to hack the account, and he sighed in disappointment. Just in case, he clicked over to the page for Alec’s pseudonym, but... “Nothing. Damn.”

“Well, keep the tab open. You never know.”

James nodded, debating for a moment before he typed a quick message: _How goes it? Wife and kids okay? Things are quiet here._

Q snorted a laugh. “Does that make Mallory the wife and Z the kid?”

“More of a general inquiry,” James said as he thought about what else he could add. _His_ status was the same — no new intel, no enemies identified — so implying anything had changed might lead Alec to believe they’d moved to a different hotel. “Besides, neither of them is Alec’s type.”

“Thank God. Z wouldn’t be kind about rebuffing him.” Q tilted his head and looked at the screen. “We’re a bit more literal in our coded language. Well, you saw, on chat.”

James laughed softly, covering his apprehension with practice, and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, what _did_ you tell him about me?”

“On chat?” Q pressed his lips together a moment before answering. “Not much, I don’t think. That you’d taken my gun — it was all very status-oriented to ease his mind. I’d called him after using the stun gun on you. I’m afraid I was in a bit of a panic.”

James’ smile was a little too sharp to be polite. “Yes. You nearly got yourself killed with that trick, you know. If I’d been Alec, you _would_ have done.”

Q’s smile was apologetic. “Why do you think I came to you? Well, apart from you being on the continent, and all...”

“You didn’t consider another agent?” James asked, refusing to feel flattered. Q was a practical sort, not one to indulge in whims — not that his ‘whims’ would bring him anywhere near James.

“To be honest, I didn’t, no. You were the only Double O I worked with in my short tenure as Quartermaster, and I’d been suitably impressed. I trusted you. Still do, after all this. M would be furious. He doesn’t trust anyone.” Q reached for the computer, eyebrows up. “Finished?”

James gestured for Q to take the laptop. “Mallory should’ve known better than to send you out into the wilds with only him as your handler and no proper backup. If you think so bloody highly of me, why didn’t you get him to send me with you?”

“You were much more valuable elsewhere.” Q’s fingers were tapping the keys, idly switching between the A and Z keys.

“Your name really is Andrew, isn’t it?” James asked. “That’s why you have that tattoo.”

Q blushed as he nodded. “It _could_ be Adam... but it’s not. Z’s got a matching one. We got them when we were teen...” His hand stopped moving, and his eyes got wide and hopeful. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You’ve had an idea?” James asked, hiding his relief. He needed the Quartermaster — the man who’d been so helpful during the Silva incident — and not a basket case.

Q nodded as he opened a new tab, one for Twitter, of all things, and searched the hashtag #AtoZ. It didn’t take much scrolling to get to a tweet whose entire message was “Heads up, eyes clear.” Q fairly collapsed in his seat.

James put a hand on Q’s shoulder before he could stop himself. The tweet had been sent a half hour ago. Why had they been out of touch for so long? And more importantly... “It doesn’t say anything about Alec.”

“Heads. Plural. They’re both safe.” Still staring at the screen, Q leaned sideways and rested his head on James’ shoulder.

“I told you Alec would keep him safe,” James said, though all he could really focus on was knowing that _Alec_ was safe. He should have known, but accidents happened. _Alec was safe._

As the knot of tension in his chest loosened, he became aware that he’d put his arm around Q’s body to hold him close. And as if that knowledge freed him to be selfish, he realised that he didn’t want to let go. All during lunch, he’d been able to concentrate on his cover as Richard Sterling, and he’d told himself that Q had done the same with his responses, but now, replaying every “yes, sir“ in his memory, he couldn’t help but wonder.

 _Let go,_ he told himself anyway, because Q was an executive. Not that James was any good at following orders, even those he gave himself.

But then Q turned _into_ his arms, hiding his face in the hollow of James’ shoulder. James pushed the computer back from the edge of the table and wrapped his other arm around Q’s body, holding him close. When he heard a quiet, deliberate sniff, he rubbed his hand over Q’s back and let his cheek rest on Q’s hair, though he stayed silent. He didn’t want Q getting any ridiculous ideas about showing weakness in front of a field agent and going to hide in the bathroom instead.

Less than a minute and a few deep, calming breaths later, Q sighed and lifted his head. “Fuck. I’m sorry.” He set his hand gently on James’ chest and pushed back to sit up. “That was supremely unprofessional. My apologies.”

Reluctantly, James let go, then rose and went to the bar to give Q a moment’s privacy. “There was nothing unprofessional about it. I was just as concerned about Alec.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s only... He’s all I’ve got. We left home when we were sixteen, and... You know what they say about twins — closer than close.”

“He couldn’t be in better hands,” James said without turning around. “Something to drink?”

“Please. Thank you. But it’s been the other way around this past year.” Q stood up and drew close to James. “You’ve stocked the bar with whisky, but Eve said you drink martinis.”

James laughed. “When I’m being a pretentious arse, I do.”

“When you’re playing Richard Sterling, or is that another persona?” Q’s eyebrow quirked.

“I’d never admit to _actually_ being a pretentious arse,” James said, thinking he’d best not let Q know how much the _Olivia May_ had cost. As he searched through the bottles the hotel had provided, he asked, “Care to give it a try? There are benefits to being pretentious, after all.”

“I’ll admit to being pretentious about a only few select things, but I’ve never considered the benefits. Please enlighten me.” Q grinned, at his shoulder.

James took up the vodka bottle and a shaker. “Look around. I could demand anything at all, and the staff would oblige. Would you like a new Ferrari? A kitten?”

“But all of that is to do with money. That’s being entitled. I can understand the benefits of that, though they do tend to turn one into a prig.” Q stepped back, but continued to watch James add ice to the shaker and a dash of vermouth.

“A prig, hmm?” James asked archly. “The other option for us to disappear was a dive hotel in Torremolinos.”

“By the water, or near the clubs?” Q countered, then went back to his seat. He turned to look at the computer screen and muttered, “Shit. Forgot to respond.”

“By the clubs, where we’d be invisible. That’s the key,” James said thoughtfully. “Either be such a pain in the arse that you _couldn’t_ be an agent or be so unremarkable that you’re invisible. I generally prefer the second, truth be told, but it never works out that way. And, well, pretentious behaviour yields much nicer hotel rooms.”

“You’re too pretty to be invisible...” Q sounded distracted, and when James looked over, he was completely focused on the computer once again, typing something quickly. “Do you think 006 ditched his mobile completely?”

“I suspect so, yes,” James said, trying not to be distracted himself by that “pretty.” “It was his MI6 mobile. That would mean he’s gone dark. He won’t check in with the office again until he’s certain it’s safe.”

“Right. And if they’re using the internet instead of calling, then they haven’t gone back to Z’s flat for his phone.”

“Or he didn’t have it to begin with,” James pointed out logically as he brought the martini over to the table. “Z _was_ a suspect. Alec wouldn’t let him have any technology.”

“Of course. _That’s_ why it’s at the flat. 006 probably frisked him before taking him to MI6.” Q looked over at the martini, then up at James. “Thank you. But where are they now?”

“Alec has a few safe refuges. Flats, hotels, that sort of thing.” James went back to the bar to get his own drink, which he’d forgotten, damn that ‘pretty’ comment of Q’s. “He won’t let anything happen to your brother.”

“I know. I do now, for certain. But none of this gets us any closer to Mallory, unless they’ve found something.” Q twisted the stem of his glass, but didn’t pick it up to drink from it.

James couldn’t help feeling bad for Q. Alec was a trained agent who’d faced all manner of deadly threats; Q’s brother was a civilian. Of course Q was still worried, despite the message. So instead of sitting opposite Q, James sat back down next to him, offering a measure of comfort through his presence. “It wouldn’t surprise — _Alec,_ ” he said, spotting a flashing notification on the Facebook tab.

He swiped at the touchpad, pressing close to Q’s side to see the screen more directly, and switched back to Facebook. Alec had responded: _No sign of the wife since she walked out. My lawyer’s still looking for her. The kid’s a stroppy pain in the arse._

“That’s my Z,” Q said with a grin. “Chat with him. Looks like he’s online.” Q pointed to the little green dot by Alec’s fake name in the bottom right corner.

 _You there, mate?_ James typed, holding his breath until a response came.

_Yeah. You all right?_

Laughing in relief, James answered: _We’re fine. No news on the wife?_

 _Still loo_  
_Looking  
_ _Sodding hell, the kid wants to talk to yours. Should I hand him over or lock him in the wardrobe until he learns manners?_

“He’d be in there for another thirty years,” Q said, chuckling. He looked up at James and added, “If you need to talk to Alec for a bit, tell him Q says, ‘fuck off for a mo’.”

James wanted nothing more than to talk to Alec for the rest of the damned night, but this was neither the time nor the place. Besides, he and Alec were professionals, all too accustomed to separation without contact. Q and Z were civilians who shouldn’t have got themselves caught up in this mess.

Silently swearing to kill Mallory himself if they retrieved the bastard alive, James said, “That’s all right. Talk to your brother.”

Q rested his hand briefly on James’ arm. “Thank you. I’ll be quick.” Then he turned the laptop slightly so he could type, _Wotcher, Z._

_Wotcher, Q. Yer man’s a fucking idiot. Got into a scrap at the office and took a punch to the ribs. Scraped up his side something awful too. Took us a while to clock out._

“Fuck. James...” Q looked over worriedly.

“It’s probably just a scratch,” James said dismissively, though he felt a twinge of worry.

Biting his lip, Q typed: _Sounds rough. Would my favourite pen have been useful?_

_Against five? Not in my hands. He kept me right out of it._

“How in bloody hell did they end up in a firefight inside MI6?” Q said, horrified.

“A highly placed traitor could order them detained,” James said, frowning. He leaned over and typed, _Any casualties on the other side? -7_

It took a minute before the response appeared: _Nothing permanent. No need to get angry at the peons when it’s their boss I’m looking for._

That was Alec. James nodded, saying, “Despite our reputation, we prefer not to kill innocents who get in our way.”

Q hummed noncommittally, typing: _You’re all right though? Take the long way home?_

_Yeah, must have just missed you. The A/C was still on._

Q started, surprised. “They’re at my old place. Up in Camden.”

_And he’s a fucking horrible patient._

James frowned at that. “Does your brother have medical training?”

“Not at all. He’s good with aftercare, but he’s never seen a gunshot wound.” Q paused before responding and looked at James. “Why?”

Hung up on the “aftercare” part, James took a moment to answer, “Alec doesn’t like doctors. I thought there was a memo to that regard going around the executive halls.”

Q smiled wryly. “He was on mission during my short tenure. We’ve never even met.” He turned back to the screen and typed: _Good Lord, did you survive playing nursemaid?_

_Haha. Barely. That fucker’s mean. ;)_

_So, before you went on holiday, did you get anything done?_

_Ah, hate to break it to you mate, but there’s a leak in the Section 17 pipeline._

After a couple of seconds, Q gasped. “There’s a traitor _in_ _Q_ _Branch._ ”


	13. Chapter 13

**Friday, 23 August 2013**

“Section seventeen?” Alec asked, trying to find a comfortable position to sit. What he needed was that leather recliner at James’ flat, not a futon that smelled of dust and had a worn spot in the middle.

“Seventeenth letter. Fucking Q Branch,” Z said, staring at the iPad screen.

“Not my native alphabet.”

“Right. Fuck, Russian, innit? Or something close?” Z looked up as if curious. “Did you fucking defect during the Cold War?”

“At your age, I’m surprised you’ve even _heard_ of the Cold War. What’s he saying?”

Z looked back at the screen, but said, “I was alive for ninety per cent of the eighties, so fuck off. He says... He’s asking if we still have any friends inside MI6. Anyone trustworthy.”

“I’d say no one other than me and James, but it doesn’t matter. None of us are setting foot in there until this disaster’s fixed. Or until I infiltrate and burn the bloody place to ashes. That’s an option,” Alec said, giving up on trying to see the screen. Instead, he leaned back and scratched above the bandages.

“Don’t fucking tear that shit off. I used half a bloody tube of ointment on it.” Z looked at Alec expectantly and continued, “Let’s take the nuclear option off the table, for fuck’s sake. Who inside right now won’t try to kill us? That fit bird from the Boss’s office? _She_ liked me.”

“She shot James, so let’s not go there,” Alec said bluntly. “Tanner? Ask them if they think Tanner’s dirty.”

“I’ll fucking ask about both of them. You said her name was Eve, right? Q’s mentioned her. He likes her.”

“Is she _his_ type? Warn him about her bloody gun. Wasn’t even a proper sniper rifle.”

Z frowned as he finished typing on the touchscreen. “No, she’s the wrong gender for him. But you can’t fucking blame her for missing her mark if she didn’t have the right bloody equipment.”

“She pulled the damned trigger!” Alec winced when he dragged in a breath to continue ranting. “Bloody hell. Was that paracetamol expired? It’s rubbish. And tell Q so’s his taste. We like Tanner. That’s good enough.”

“You have to take a bloody handful to get them to work. I don’t fucking know.” Z looked back at the screen and said, “Ah, fuck. I think Q’s worried about Tanner. As in, we should fucking extract him ASAP.”

 _So much for sleep,_ Alec thought, bracing himself as he got up off the futon. “I need a couple of shirts.”

Z stood up with him as if wanting to help. “But he wasn’t in the fucking office when we were there. How do you know where the fuck he is now?” He stared thoughtfully at Alec for a moment, then added, “Also, not one fucking thing I own will fit you.”

“Naturally. James goes through a whole fucking mission and doesn’t even lose a cufflink, and I can’t go a day without losing two shirts. And my bloody motorcycle,” he complained, scratching above the bandage again. “I need to look less disreputable. Any neighbours about my build? I can break in and steal something.”

“Hang on, Q went through a fucking slouchy phase, and there’s some of his shit in the back of the wardrobe. Gimme a second.” Z handed the iPad to Alec and headed to the wardrobe. “Say something to them while I look.”

Alec swiped up through the chat, trying to catch up, but half of it was in incomprehensible code that defied even his ability to interpret and extrapolate. Bloody twins. Probably shared a brain the way he and James sometimes did.

Giving up, he scrolled back down and typed: _Heading out to Uncle Bill’s shortly. I’ll send your love._

A few moments later he received in answer: _Drive safe. Keep the little one out of trouble. -7_

Well. Apparently, he was bringing Z with him on the mission. “Change your shirt, too,” he called over to the wardrobe where Z had disappeared. “You’re coming with.”

Z’s voice trailed out from the crush of clothes inside. “Of course I’m fucking coming with, you arse. You’re injured. Someone’s gotta watch your fucking back.”

 

~~~

 

Q sat back from the computer and stared at the screen for a few moments before he took a sip of his drink. “That’s not a trap we just sent them into, is it?”

“If it is, Alec will keep both Tanner and your brother safe.” Bond sounded supremely confident of that.

“I believe you. Or, I believe you believe that. Which is almost the same thing.” Q took another sip and felt the liquor loosen the muscles in his back and legs. “And it’s easier to believe that than to drive myself to distraction with worry.”

“Then let me help you,” Bond said, crossing over to the room phone on the desk. He’d plugged it back in, along with the phone in the bedroom. “I’ll make a spa appointment for you. I can probably get one today.”

Q smiled at Bond’s attempt to take care of him. It felt good, if a little “Richard Sterling.” “Are you sure we shouldn’t try to go help them find M?”

“I’m not bringing you anywhere near England until this is all settled,” Bond said, picking up the spa menu. “Come choose what you want.”

Q brought his drink over to the desk and glanced at the menu. Facial treatments, body treatments, beauty treatments. Nails, massage, hair removal. “I’m not used to having people I know touch me. Why would I let a stranger do it?”

“Because it’s a very well-trained, expensive stranger who’ll help you get a good night’s sleep?” Bond suggested, amused. “If you were any more tense, you’d be radioactive.”

“I’m not _that_ tense. I stretch every morning and evening.” Q took a sip of his drink, then pointed to it, adding, “And _this_ is on its way to relaxing me and will help me sleep.” He wasn’t exactly sure why he was resisting a massage so much, except that it meant leaving Bond for a period of time, which he was reluctant to do — especially after their lunch together. He knew it hadn’t been real, but it had felt good enough he’d been happy to pretend.

“May I?” Bond asked, gesturing for Q to turn around.

Q turned slowly, saying, “May you do what?”

“Touch you.”

Q’s heart knocked once against his chest, making his breath fairly jump out of his lungs. It had been a very solitary ten months. It was possible that, apart from lunch earlier, no one had touched him in all that time except for handshakes — _and_ the odd moment of rough handling from the mercenaries he was in contact with. He was glad his back was turned as he found the voice to say, “Yes?”

Bond’s hands slid up over Q’s shoulders, making them jump towards his ears. Bond pulled his hands away for a moment, until Q lowered his shoulders and nodded his permission. Bond slowly slid his hands back into place so that Q could get accustomed to their weight. Then his thumbs began to dig in with slow, steady pressure that had Q gasping in seconds, trapped between a hint of pain and the promise of relief from tension he’d no longer realised he was carrying. Bond didn’t even move his hands; he flexed his fingers, rubbing slow circles, until Q’s knees threatened to buckle.

The sudden absence of that touch left Q dizzy. He turned to see Bond had picked up the phone again. “ _Now_ should I make that appointment?” he asked gently, looking back at Q over one shoulder.

Q dropped into the desk chair and fairly whined, “Why did you stop?”

“I was just trying to prove a point. You’ve earned a little indulgence, Q. And if those bastards in Accounts Payable protest, I’ll pay the bill myself.”

Q was pouting. He knew he was, and he knew how ridiculous he looked, but at the moment, he didn’t care. It was unfair of Bond to give him only a hint of something so pleasurable and then tell him to find it elsewhere. He didn’t want to have anyone else touch him. It would take half the bloody massage for him to relax enough for them to do him any good. Hell, it had taken all of a very traumatic day for Q to not pull away from Bond’s hands, and even then, he’d startled like a colt.

He finished off his martini and schooled his expression into something less childish before he said, mildly, “It’s fine. I’ll just take a hot bath in a bit.”

Bond set down the phone and leaned against the desk, the very picture of confidence and concern. Even his smile was soft and gentle, the sort of thing one would never imagine from a trained assassin. “Are you certain? A bath won’t be enough, and you deserve some sort of reward for what you’ve gone through these past few months.”

The words _I’ll take you_ teased at the back of Q’s mind, and he wished he could swat them away like flies. The combination of knowing that Z was alive and kicking, that Q himself didn’t have to continue his failure of a mission, and that he was safe and in friendly hands had allowed him to let go of the lion’s share of the tension he’d been carrying for far too long. The martini had worked its magic and got rid of just a bit more, leaving Q with only that which was apparently locked in his muscles. And yet, he still couldn’t ask for what his exhausted brain and neglected body wanted. He couldn’t allow himself to be so deeply inappropriate with a coworker — because no matter what they’d been playing at, that was what Bond was. Nothing more.

Q wished that for just a few hours everything could be simple, straightforward, and easy. He couldn’t _ask_ , but maybe he could offer. He looked up at Bond and said, “I’d rather let _you_ decide what I deserve as a reward.”

Instead of picking up the phone again or making some excuse, Bond stared down into Q’s eyes, his expression going carefully, completely neutral. “Perhaps you should tell me my options.”

Was _he_ now offering... What, exactly? There was no way they had entered into a negotiation of limits. There was no way Q was that lucky. Sure, Bond seemed to enjoy it when he said the word _sir,_ but didn’t everyone who had been a part of a chain of command? The dominant nature of Richard Sterling’s interaction with his pet Andrew was a cover, nothing more. Wasn’t it?

Q’s eyes were too wide, and his voice was too soft, but he smiled and said, “Well, very few of them are on that menu card.”

Bond’s smile, full of amusement, was at odds with the stern edge in his voice as he warned, “That’s not what I asked.”

The sound had Q searching for the breath to answer, “No, sir, it’s not. But at the moment I can’t imagine denying you anything.”

“Good.” Bond took Q’s hand and pulled him from the chair. Q would have stepped close, right up against Bond, if not for the sudden tension he saw. Bond’s fingers went loose around Q’s hand, and he calmly asked, “Would you rather I not touch you?”

Q smiled in gratitude at the consideration. It boded well. “No, you’re welcome to, even if I jump. If it gets too much, I’ll tell you.”

“Enticing as you are” — Bond lifted his hand to touch Q’s face so lightly, Q could barely feel it — “I don’t need to. If I do anything you don’t like, even if you change your mind about something, you’re to tell me at once. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Q felt himself leaning into this dynamic as it formed around them, learning with every statement from Bond that it was safe — that it would hold his weight without trapping him.

Bond brushed his fingers over Q’s face again, this time more deliberately, never looking away from his eyes. “Is this about sex for you, or do you just want to forget for a little while?”

“Oh, God. Both? But it’s been a long time for either, so I can’t promise anything.” Q couldn’t maintain eye contact; the nerves of being with a Double O — especially 007 — in _any_ way overtook him. His gaze caught on Bond’s mouth instead, and he stared as those curved, expressive lips quirked up in a wry smile.

“Am I going to end up sacked after this?” Bond teased, dragging his fingers down to touch Q’s mouth. “Because I’ve thought about this for a very long time, but if I’m never going to see you again after, I may not let you sleep tonight.”

 _Fuck._ The heat that blossomed low in Q’s gut was almost painful. All he felt was want; all he could do was wait. “Officially, I’m still a traitor, so I have no authority to sack you. Also, I only report to M, and he doesn’t need to hear about this.” He brushed his lips against Bond’s fingers before adding, “But you can keep me up as long as you want.”

Bond hummed thoughtfully as he moved his hand further down, brushing against Q’s throat. He smiled again, eyes lighting up with mischief. “Let’s call this interrogation. I can make every attempt, you can bravely resist, and we’ll both impress management.”

“Perfect. I’ve long believed after action reports are rife with euphemism. I’m glad to have it confirmed.” Q grinned and tilted his head back to give Bond full access to his neck. “Ready when you are.”

“You forgot ‘sir’.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Friday, 23 August 2013**

Evening turned Alec’s jeans dark enough for the bloodstains to be less visible, but only out in the street. He pulled Z back from the pool of light spilling through the store windows and quietly asked, “Are you mad? I can’t go in there.”

“Then fucking don’t. Just stand there and look pretty, or at least not so fucking deadly, and I’ll be right back.” Z licked his lips and bit on his lip ring for a second as he stared at the entrance. He pulled the driver’s cap down over his eyes a bit more and hitched up his jeans. “Just give us a minute.”

“If you get yourself killed, I’ll make you regret it,” Alec threatened uncomfortably. While he looked like he was a serial killer stalking his next victim, Z looked like the perfect target. He’d taken ten years off his age by switching out his piercings to more subtle ones, putting on a striped T-shirt and braces, and letting his hair go soft and fluffy under his cap. It roused all of Alec’s protective instincts, because if there was one thing Double O’s hated more than putting an asset in danger, it was putting a _child_ -asset in danger.

“It’s a fucking mobile, not a gun. And I’m not fucking lifting it; I’ve got money to pay.” Z grinned at him and headed to the door, a cocky swagger to his walk.

If they all survived this, Alec was going to kill James for putting him in this situation. And maybe Q for having a twin _and_ putting them all in this situation. He was tempted to check the iPad for more messages from James, but there was no point in drawing more attention to himself.

 _Stand there and look pretty_ , he thought, trying not to visibly snarl with every breath. His ribs hurt, he was hungry, and now he had to worry about Z getting caught on CCTV and triggering an MI6 alert. All because of some harebrained plot between Mallory and the not-a-traitor-Quartermaster to play at being bloody cowboys.

No. Alec wouldn’t _kill_ them. He’d drag their arses to Texas and let the bloody mechanical bulls do it for him.

Z spent a casual fifteen minutes charming the cashier while they set up a burner mobile. If Alec was reading the situation right, through quick glimpses at a bad angle, Z even got the bloke to hand over a fully charged battery so they could use the mobile right away.

Clever little shit. Now Alec was going to _have to_ recruit him, just because. Then again, why the hell not? If nothing else, he’d give strait-laced Mallory a heart attack.

The little shit in question left the store humming a tune and strutted straight towards Alec, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. He was smart enough to walk past and let Alec catch up at his own pace. Z had stopped at the corner to take the mobile out of its packaging and put the battery in when Alec stepped up to stand next to him.

“Fucking easy as falling down, mate. No cameras at the front counter, so I stuck to it like glue. Easy enough, since the cashier was a fucking flirt.” Z’s grin was somewhat rakish when he glanced up at Alec.

“I thought blokes weren’t your thing. Or is it just me?” Alec teased, resisting the urge to snatch at the mobile. Instead, he nudged Z into walking again; they had some way to go before it’d be safe to get on the Underground. They’d steal another car on the other end, since Tanner lived out in suburban Middlesex.

“They’re not, particularly, but I can play a fucking angle when I see one,” Z said as he cocked an eyebrow at Alec. “And I can recognise beauty when it’s sat right in front of me.”

Fatigue led to mistakes like the unjustified paranoia Alec felt come at him in a rush. Z was a gifted amateur, not a trained agent. There was virtually no chance that this was an elaborate double-fake meant to entrap him, Tanner, and James. Everything was fine.

Besides, he was in no situation to do a full background check on Z and ferret out any secrets hiding in his past. He was barely staying upright.

“Cheer up, mate. We’ll get your boyfriend back in the country in fucking no time at all.” Z handed the mobile over to Alec and continued. “That is, once we find this Tanner character and ask him nicely to let Q and me into the fucking system so we can actually fucking get somewhere in all this mess.”

“First, we have to make it so ‘the fucking system’ doesn’t have us both listed as targets,” Alec said grimly as he punched in James’ phone number.

It took three and a half rings before James answered, “Yes?”

“Update your contact information with this number,” Alec said, feeling better just for hearing James’ voice. “You safe?”

“Safe.” James laughed shortly. “Very. Are you?”

“Couple cracked ribs. We stopped for the phone on the way to Bill’s.”

“No update on him, then?”

“I’ll let you know when we get there. Should be an hour or so.”

“Why so long?”

“Cameras,” Alec said, knowing James would understand.

“Ah. Of course.”

“Oi, Trevelyan... Bring the phone here, please.” Q’s voice came faintly over the line at first, then was suddenly a lot closer as he continued, “006, put Z on.”

“Nice to hear your voice, too,” Alec said before he offered Z the phone. “It’s your wife.”

“Wotcher, Q.” As Z listened, his eyes widened, and the look of shock turned to humour, then to pride. “All right, mate. Enjoy.” He rang off and handed the mobile back without saying another word.

Alec had expected he’d have to pry the mobile away. Frowning, he dropped it into the pocket of his stolen jacket and asked, “What’s happened?”

Z shrugged. “They’re fucking.”

It took Alec a moment to realise the word was a verb, not an adjective or expletive. And that was bad. Incredibly, phenomenally bad, though not particularly surprising. But it _was_ complicated in a way that could cause a great deal of trouble in the not-so-distant future.

“How?”

“What d’you mean, ‘how’?” Z looked both outraged and amused that Alec had asked. “He didn’t go into fucking positions. Though it’s fucking possible as fuck that restraints are involved.”

“Fucking hell,” Alec groaned, pulling the mobile back out of his pocket. He needed to put a stop to this before James pissed off his asset — or, worse, before that asset triggered a violent reaction in his agent.

“Whoa, no. Abso-fucking-lutely not.” Z put his hand out to cover the screen of the mobile. “Q needs this. He needs to fucking let go. If your man can tie him up and fuck him, everything will go a lot fucking smoother, I swear to God.”

“But —” Alec’s brain finally processed Z’s words, and he stopped trying to get at the screen. If Q _wasn’t_ the stubbornly dominant sort, then... “That could work. It’s a fucking terrible idea, but it could work.”

“It’s sort of fucking brilliant, actually. If 007 has even one dominant bone in his fucking body, Q will find it and respond to it. Fucking Christ, it’ll be so much easier to talk to him, after.” Z sighed, visibly relieved, and the sight helped Alec relax.

“No need to worry about James,” he said much more calmly. “That’s his thing. It’s hell on him if he can’t, like on a mission.”

Z huffed, amused. “Taking orders takes it out of him, you mean? Has to recharge with a fucking flogger in his hand? Fuck. Now I _have_ to meet this wanker.”

“None of us _likes_ taking orders, at least as far as I know,” Alec said, though he had his suspicions about a couple of the field agents. “And nobody’s stupid enough to try putting _any_ of us in restraints. They don’t even ask us to play hostage in rescue training scenarios, after a few incidents.”

“Oh, fuck. Right.” Z’s eyes were wide as the implications of Alec’s words sunk in. “Well, Q is definitely not a fucking switch. Not in bed.”

“Good. And even better,” Alec said with a sudden grin, “James is getting his holiday after all. That’s means it’s my turn. Ever been to the Mediterranean?”

Z gave him a curious smirk. “Yeah. Greece, mostly. Why? Looking for suggestions of places to pick up a sub? Because I’ve fucking got some.”

“Perfect. And James has a boat. We deserve a holiday after this, don’t you think?”

The smirk went wide-eyed, then devilish. Z laughed as he said, “Too fucking right, mate.”

 

~~~

 

This was... Really nice. And wholly unexpected from a deadly Double O agent. Bond had Q shirtless, lying on the bed, and was simply, well, _petting_ him. Trailing fingers over his skin. Demanding only that Q lie still, hands tucked beneath his pillow, and keep his eyes closed. And if Q opened them for any reason, Bond reminded him to close them, which helped him concentrate on the sensations.

It was almost meditative — allowing Q to focus on each inch of his torso as nerve endings fired in a way they hadn’t for far too long. It had easily been a year since he’d stayed so present in his body for this long — the phone call interruption notwithstanding. It had taken a little while for Q to not jump at every touch, but he’d greenlighted whenever Bond paused so that he knew it was okay to continue.

But by this point — and Q had no idea how long they’d been at it — it was as if Bond’s strong, gentle hands on his body were what brought it into being. Or at least they were what woke him up and reminded Q he was more than a brain with fingers. _And_ that this body of his had needs and desires that required tending to.

Q’s breath stuttered and hitched when Bond’s fingers dipped into the waistband of the trousers he was still wearing. With a soft laugh, Bond asked, “Did you want more?”

Heat crept up Q’s skin, not just on his neck and face, but his chest as well. He had no idea what “more” meant, but dear God, he wanted it. “Anything, sir.”

Bond didn’t answer, except to carefully undo the top button, then draw down the zip. The pressure was almost too light for Q to feel. “Lift your hips,” Bond said as he moved his hands to take hold of the waistband again. As soon as Q did, Bond eased the trousers — _only_ the trousers — down to Q’s thighs. A press got Q to settle back down, and Bond slid the trousers down his legs and off his bare feet. “Are you cold?”

The goosebumps that raised on Q’s thighs had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. He shivered slightly in anticipation and shook his head.

“Answer me,” Bond said sternly, though the hands that began to touch Q’s legs were gentle.

Q sucked in a quick breath and tried to keep his legs from tensing up as he said, “No, sir. Not cold.”

“Good,” Bond said soothingly, and the shift in his tone from hard to soft allowed Q to once again bask in the attention. Bond stroked and petted, and though he didn’t speak, Q could _feel_ his focus. Every twitch was eased, every taut muscle rubbed gently into relaxation, and soon Q was floating, aware of his entire body but not at all self-conscious or anxious about it.

When Bond moved up beside him once more, Q anticipated another touch, this time to the waistband of his pants, and another quietly asked, _more?_ But Bond just laid down beside him, close enough for Q to feel his presence without touching, and went back to exploring Q’s face with his fingertips instead.

It was oddly just as calming to have his face touched — another reminder to relax, another revelation of how much tension he held in him without knowing. Slight pressure on his eyebrows kept them from furrowing; light strokes on his cheeks helped him untense his jaw. Bond’s fingers strayed close to Q’s mouth, and in gratitude, he turned his head just enough to brush his lips over a knuckle and close-cut nail.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Bond said so softly that the words didn’t disturb Q’s peaceful state at all.

Q opened his mouth to nibble at Bond’s lingering finger and murmured, “Thank you, sir. You feel very good.”

The mattress shifted. Then Q felt warmth on his forehead, followed by the soft touch of Bond’s lips. He feathered kisses down to Q’s cheek, though he stopped at the corner of Q’s mouth. As Bond pulled away, Q turned to brush their lips together, and Bond went still just long enough that Q worried he’d gone too far.

But then Bond leaned in closer, and the maybe-kiss turned soft and hot, with Bond’s lips parting just enough that he and Q shared breath. His hand cupped Q’s cheek, holding him in place, and Q, with his heart in this throat, touched the tip of his tongue to Bond’s lower lip.

As if that were all the signal he needed, Bond pressed his fingers to Q’s skin and took control of the kiss. The sweep of his tongue stole Q’s breath and spread a slow, hot fire beneath his skin. Q clutched at the pillow covering his hands and let a soft whimper escape as Bond’s mouth took all of his focus.

“Shh.” Bond broke the kiss long enough to say, “Feel everything, Andrew.”

Q’s name in Bond’s mouth tasted so sweet, until the worry that Bond was treating this dynamic as if it were a part of their cover made everything go sour. He wouldn’t be able to stand any more of this if that were true. _Something_ needed to be real after so many months of hiding everything he was. He pulled back as much as he could and drew a heavy breath, then forced himself to say, “Yellow light.”

Immediately, Bond pulled back from the kiss. He cupped Q’s cheek in his hand and looked down with a concerned frown. “Talk to me.”

Q’s heart was rabbiting against his chest, but he managed to ask, “Am I meant to call you Richard when you call me Andrew?”

The frown faded into a neutral mask. “Is that what you’d like?”

“No, please, I’d rather...” Q tripped over the word _stop,_ not wanting to, but knowing he should if this was only a mission seduction for Bond. Though, how it could be anything else, really?

“If you don’t like ‘sir’, I’d rather you call me James.”

Q’s sigh of relief held the word, “Yes.” He smiled and quickly added, “I’d like that, James.”

With a smile of his own, Bond — _James_ — said, “I can’t think of you as my Quartermaster. Not like this. But if that’s what you want me to call you, I will.”

“I’ve actually been Q for half my life. I stopped going by Andrew after Z and I got into hacking. Q was my handle from the start, and soon it just became my name, too.”

James laughed, and his hand moved to trace over the tattoo on Q’s chest. “So it’s not the Quartermaster title? Your tattoo...”

“The tattoos were for our names, as well as the idea of ‘from start to finish’. Besides, A to Z just sounds better than Q to Z.” Q tucked in his chin so he could watch Bond’s finger on his skin. The touch was soothing and his heart rate began to slow.

“What’s Z’s name, then? I can’t think of anything but Zachary, but that seems so... _twee_. Andrew and Zachary. Awful thing to do to twins.”

“Z’s name is Z. Unlike me, he has no connection with the name it’s derived from, so he goes by nothing else. Not since we were twelve.” Only a handful of people on the planet knew Z’s birth name, and it wasn’t Q’s place to ever divulge it. So he tried to make this word on the matter final without sounding rude.

“Fair enough. I don’t think there’s an MI6 title that fits the name, though. Sorry,” James said with a soft laugh, moving his hand to stroke over Q’s whole chest and abdomen, rather than concentrating on the tattoo.

Q sighed and pressed into the touch, feeling strangely feline. “You know, Quartermaster’s not even the official title. It’s actually Senior Armourer. And Q Branch used to be Technical Services Section — TSS — before Boothroyd insisted on a single-letter designation.”

“The things I would’ve learned if I hadn’t been avoiding lectures down there,” James murmured, leaning in to press his lips to Q’s cheek. “Now that you’re back, I may stop by. If you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Of course not.” Q was surprised James would offer. Double O’s steered clear of Q Branch as if their lives depended on it, except when being issued their kit for missions. Even then it was a struggle to get them to stay long enough to explain how things worked. “If you’d be willing to visit, you’re more than welcome.”

James laughed and kissed him again, this time letting the kiss linger for a few seconds before saying, “Willing and eager. I even promise not to scare off too many of your techs, if you’ll allow me to stay.”

“I wonder if simply my return won’t scare the more timid ones off, so whoever’s left will just have to get used to you, I suppose.” Q smiled and stretched his neck as an invitation for James to kiss it.

James nuzzled against Q’s neck, saying, “You forgot one thing, Q.”

“Andrew, if you’d rather. I like hearing it from you.” Q risked pulling one hand out from under the pillow to trail his fingers through James’ hair, and James quietly hummed, relaxing under the touch. “But what have I forgotten?”

James reached up and took hold of Q’s wrist. His fingers circled all the way around, holding Q firmly but carefully. “It’s James or ‘sir’, remember?” he asked, lifting his head with a sharp, wicked smile that took Q’s breath away.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered as anticipation and desire pulled hard at him, and a thread of nervousness ran through all of it.

James hummed in approval and brought Q’s hand to his mouth to kiss each fingertip. Then he lifted his head so he could kiss across Q’s knuckles, then the back of his hand, then around to his palm, every touch light and soft but lingering. By the time he reached Q’s sensitive inner wrist, Q was shivering.

Then James let go, and he smiled slyly once more. “Hand back under the pillow, Andrew. I didn’t say you could move it.”

Q opened his mouth to protest that it was technically during the “yellow light” conversation, but instead he took this as the hint to get back to business that it surely was. He pressed his lips together as he slid his hand under the pillow, then nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Friday, 23 August 2013**

Tanner and his wife lived in a detached house in a quiet part of Harrow. Alec was tempted to park a few streets over, but pedestrians would draw more attention than an unfamiliar car, even if it was stolen.

Besides, as far as Alec knew, all MI6 executives had extra CCTV security coverage at their primary residences. There was no sense in playing coy when speed was to their advantage, even if he had a civilian tagging along like the strangest mascot ever.

“Remember, stay behind me. If I say run, you run like hell,” he said as he shut off the ignition. He shrugged off the jacket and tossed it at Z, adding, “And put that on.”

Z looked disgusted, which was sort of fair, given the amount of blood on it. “What the fuck for?”

“Cynthia keeps roses. The jacket’s crap, but it’s leather. If you go jumping out a window, I’m not handing you back to your brother damaged,” Alec said, pointedly not opening his door.

Shaking his head, Z held up the jacket and muttered, “The things you must do to get your fucking kicks, mate. I’m going to be fucking swimming in this. It’ll slow me down if anything.”

“Neither of us is dressed for visiting anyone, much less a bloody MI6 exec, but here we are. Be glad I don’t make you wear the damned vest.” Alec had been tempted, but that was a flaw in agent thinking. Protect yourself so you can protect the asset — that was the rule. Otherwise, a dead agent wasn’t worth a damn, and an unguarded asset could be picked off easily, bulletproof vest or no.

“Who the fuck are we meeting? Is the wife a fucking government assassin or some bollocks?” For all his grousing, Z was actually putting the jacket on, so Alec called it a win.

“Senior designer for the Ministry of Defence Advanced Weapons Division. So essentially, yes.” Too late, it occurred to Alec that he probably wasn’t supposed to mention that, but fuck it. He was saving lives. That got him points.

Z’s mouth was hanging open, so clearly Alec had scored points with him, too. “You’re fucking joking, mate. That’s bloody incredible. You better fucking believe I’m going to be asking how they met.”

Alec knew how they’d met, but it wasn’t his story to tell. He just grinned, glad that Z was cooperating and happy, and got out of the car.

As soon as he stepped out, his back itched as if he were in a sniper’s sights, but he told himself it was just his imagination. And if not, there probably wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about it without looking suspicious. With any luck, the sniper would be wondering why the hell MI6’s Most Wanted rogue Double O would be stopping by an exec’s for a chat.

By some miracle, they made it up the gently curved walkway without incident. Instead of stairs, the brick path sloped up to a low front entrance with a keypad at waist-height. There was no deadbolt or conventional lock.  Alec pressed the doorbell above the keypad, then glanced back at Z. In the oversized jacket, he looked even younger, as if Alec were taking his nephew out for the night. And that was a terrifying thought. Alec wasn’t even entirely convinced Z had been _born_ ; cloning was still a viable explanation.

“Hang on, is she going to think I’m fucking in league with a traitor? For that matter, is _he?_ Because if so, I’d rather not.” Z took a wary step back from the door.

“You’re in my custody. You’re perfectly safe,” Alec assured him.

“You say that like I’m going to believe you, after today,” Z said with a huge grin.

“Were you shot? You weren’t shot, or you would’ve been bleeding along with me.”

“There I am, fucking bullets whizzing by my head, and I’m thinking, ‘never been safer in me fucking life,’” Z said with a laugh.

“Don’t make me give you to Cynthia for her next hostage rescue demonstration,” Alec threatened, amused at Z’s tenacity. And, yes, his courage. He hadn’t thrown a fit or gone cowering under the sofa, even if he did look like he _lived_ under there, waiting for unsuspecting passers-by.

The door opened automatically, pushed by a silent hydraulic arm, revealing Tanner in his shirtsleeves, thinning hair mussed, eyes wide with surprise. “Alec.” Tanner’s hand moved, out of Alec’s line of sight, and Alec knew he’d reached for the gun tucked behind a potted palm. “Tell me you aren’t hostile.”

“I’m not,” Alec said, which was technically a lie; he was feeling extraordinarily hostile at the moment. “Most of Section 20 is, though. Be nice if you could ring them up and put them back in their kennels.”

“It was a paperwork error,” Tanner said, frowning, as he dropped his hand away from the gun. “Something about you bringing an enemy into MI6 outside proper procedure.”

“It was a bloody hell of a lot more than a ‘paperwork error’,” Alec muttered. “Though they at least got that part right. Here’s our enemy. Careful, he bites.” He stepped aside, gesturing back at Z.

“Fuck off, mate,” Z muttered under his breath, then tugged at his cap in greeting.

“He’s...” Tanner trailed off, gaping at Z. “Good Lord.”

“Z,” he said, extending a hand. “And I _am,_ in fact, related to Q.”

“Then you...” Bill began, then trailed off, shaking his head. He looked at Alec and sighed. “Bugger. Of course, you know.”

Alec snorted. “Thanks for not telling me. Can we come in, or are you going to have your wife shoot us?”

“Only if you don’t wipe your feet,” Cynthia called from behind Bill. “You all right there, Alec?”

“Yes, love, only your husband’s in the way, as always,” he shouted back with a grin. Cynthia wouldn’t be relaxed if there was a hint of danger threatening her family.

“I don’t even know why I bother,” Bill said with a shrug as he stepped aside. Needing to get out of the open, Alec followed, then pulled on the sleeve of Z’s jacket to get him past the door’s sensors. After Bill hit the button to close and lock the door, Alec let out a relieved breath.

With a soft hum, Cynthia’s wheelchair rolled into sight. Fashionably blonde and curvy, people would have underestimated her even without the wheelchair. And no one would’ve ever suspected her to be one of the top weapons designers not just in the UK but in the world.

She looked up at them, eyes narrowing as she glanced at the “slouchy phase” shirt that Z had given Alec. It was stretched so tightly over the bulletproof vest that Cynthia could probably identify the make, model, and size. “Oh, for God’s sake, Alec. What have you done now?”

“Me? Nothing! Why is it always me?” he protested.

She beckoned him close, and he obeyed at once, so he could give her a kiss on the cheek. “Because you’re always in trouble whenever James isn’t around to rein in your excesses, and he’s on holiday.”

“Er,” Bill said. “This is technically confidential, 006.”

“She outranks us all,” Alec pointed out reasonably. Only two people in the house were currently armed, and Bill wasn’t one of them.

“The whole operation’s gone to hell, I assume?” Bill asked, eyeing Z as if expecting him to light the rug on fire.

Z held his hands up, placatingly. “Oi, not my bloody fault. I was just the backup, and then your M went missing. As far as I can tell, it’s _his_ sodding fault.” Alec noticed the lack of “fucks” in Z’s statement and smiled encouragingly. It was good to know he could be trained.

“Gareth’s missing?” Cynthia asked sharply.

“Darling,” Bill said, turning to her. “I _couldn’t_ say anything. He left instructions.”

“Then he’s an idiot.” She looked up at Alec and said, “Introduce me to your... friend, and then come join us for dinner. You can tell me all about it, and to hell with the Official Secrets Act.”

“Dame Cynthia Tanner, our quartermaster’s brother, Z. He bites.”

“Only when a great lummox with a gun breaks into my flat and pins me to the floor,” Z muttered, then gave Cynthia a charming smile and held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“Please, make yourself at home,” she invited with a winning smile of her own as she clasped his hand. Z blinked in surprise, probably noticing the strength and calluses, and his smile went sharp. With her free hand, Cynthia gestured into the house. “The dining room’s —”

“Would you mind arming the security system first?” Alec interrupted.

Bill and Cynthia both looked at him. With a polite cough, Bill said, “You should be safe now, Alec. I took care of everything back at HQ.”

“I bloody well hope so because as things stand now, you might well be their next target.”

“Not on _my_ watch,” Cynthia said sharply. “I’ll let Karen and Julia know they’ll be staying long enough for us to get this settled. I assume it’s not safe for them to leave?”

Alec shook his head. He didn’t know Karen, but Julia had been the Tanners’ cook for years. He was a little in love with her dinners. “Best not to take chances. We haven’t figured out how the bastard was able to send Section 20 after us twelve hours ago.”

“Fuck. That long?” Z’s eyes went wide and he ducked his head. “Sorry. I suppose I just keep replaying it in my head.”

Cynthia shot Alec a sharp look. When Alec nodded, she beckoned to Z and said, “Then let’s get you a drink first. We’re having pesto chicken with tomatoes and green beans, all of it fresh. You’ll love it.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” Z followed Cynthia into the living room, casting one quick glance over his shoulder at Alec. He raised his chin and winked so subtly, Alec almost missed it.

After arming the house alarm system — a system that Cynthia had substantially upgraded — Bill walked up beside Alec and asked, “Are you all right?”

Alec took a deep breath as best he could, though the vest and cracked ribs didn’t make it easy. So much for his moment of self-assessment. “Look, mate. I hate to do this, but I need you to call in backup you can trust. Maybe some of Cynthia’s people.”

“Of course.” Bill got as far as the foot of the curving staircase before he hesitated. “Do you want to go lie down for a bit, or dinner first?”

“Dinner, painkillers, and six hours of sleep, and I’ll be fine.”

“Are you lying?”

Alec smiled grimly. “You can’t afford the honest answer. Once you hear what Z and I have to tell you, you’ll want Medical giving me more of their stay-awake pills.”

“Christ, I told them not to let you lot near those things. Go sit down at the table. I’ll find painkillers. Need anything else?”

“Z needs your laptop. That way, he can start cracking into who the hell issued an executive kill order on me.”

“Won’t take me long,” Z called from the bar in the front room. “Especially if Q’s done sha— er, is online.”

“We’ll interrupt,” Alec said dryly, mentally filling in what Z had meant to say. Neither Tanner nor Cynthia needed to know James and Q were sleeping together. “This is more important.”

 

~~~

 

In all of James’ life, he’d never seen anything as gorgeous as Q lying beside him in languid repose. His flushed skin tempted James to kiss, to touch, to taste, but he controlled his impulses. Slow and gentle touches had all but hypnotised Q into the most beautifully submissive state, and that was far more satisfying than the raw physical urge to get off. Hell, James would be content to do this for hours, without going near the pants that Q still wore.

His one indulgence was to coax Q into kissing him — never demanding but always controlling, tasting Q’s mouth deeply before backing away, leaving Q satisfied but not sated. Wanting more. This was sensual and intimate and, yes, full of the most perfect sort of imbalance of power, but it wasn’t about sex.

But that didn’t stop James’ dominant side from flaring bright and hot when, _again_ , his bloody mobile rang. If it was Alec calling just to chat — hell, if it was Q’s damned brother calling to chat — James was going to shoot someone upon returning to England. Not fatally, but painfully.

Q jumped at the sound, having been so completely lulled into relaxation, and his eyes flew open with a look of mild panic. “James—”

“Shh, love,” James said, brushing one hand over Q’s hair and reaching for the mobile with the other. The incoming call was from Alec’s latest number, so James swiped the screen and quietly answered, “Yes?”

“It’s us again,” Alec said, sounding exhausted. “You lot safe?”

Worry shattered the lingering traces of James’ mood, but he kept his voice calm as he said, “Yes. Are you?”

“We’re at Tanner’s. It’s secure here. Bill’s fine, and Cynthia’s here.”

James sighed and leaned down to brush a kiss across Q’s cheek. “They’re all safe at Tanner’s,” he murmured.

Q nodded slowly, watching James’ face carefully, his expression calm. James went back to petting Q, though he restricted his touch to Q’s chest, and said, “Any progress on our missing exec?”

“Working on it. Z’s going to start digging in using Tanner’s access. Legally, this time —” Alec’s voice went distant. “Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t tried your bloody hacker tricks on everything from MI6 to Buckingham Palace.”

James heard a sharp laugh in the background and what sounded like, “You’ve no bloody idea, mate. The whole government’s a lot of swiss cheese.”

“I’m going to have to recruit or arrest this one when we’re done,” Alec said dryly.

James grinned and told Q, “Alec’s keeping your brother. I hope he can cook. God knows Alec can’t.”

“Oi!” Alec protested.

Q smiled, his eyes closed, and raised his voice enough to carry over the phone. “He’s bloody useless, Alec. He can boil water and that’s about it.”

“You’re both going to starve,” James predicted.

“Cynthia fed us. She likes us. We’re very likeable. Right, Cynthia?”

“Bloody ridiculous, if he doesn’t get off the phone and go to bed, James,” Cynthia said sharply in the background.

James laughed. “You heard the lady. Go to bed.”

Frowning, Q opened his eyes and mouthed, “Lady?” James held up his hand.

“I’m going, I’m going. You’re a bully,” Alec complained. “James, Z wants to talk to Q.”

James looked down at Q and quietly said, “They’re safe, and Tanner’s wife’s fed them. Did you want to talk to Z?”

Q sighed and said, “No, but I will. Put it on speaker, please.”

“All right. Alec, go the fuck to sleep, and put Z on,” James said before he switched the mobile to speaker.

“Fucking bullies, the lot of you,” Alec muttered, his voice going distant, as if he were passing off the phone.

Then Z’s voice came, sounding almost, though not quite, like Q’s: “Wotcher, Q. You’re not too tied up to talk?”

“Fuck off, Z.”

“Look, mate. I know. I’m fucking sorry. But Tanner’s useless, and Alec’s clearance isn’t high enough, and I just need your brain for a second. Some fucker falsified a kill order on Alec. What sort of clearance would he need for that, and how can I find the bugger? We know he’s tech smart, but he’s not _us._ A trace of him’s gotta be in there somewhere.”

Q squeezed his eyes shut and hummed. “Right. Thing is, he wouldn’t have clearance. So it would have been a one-time hack to the executive order application, which means he might have munged it. I never thought to set up a daemon to catch and stop that sort of command, but it should be obvious if he’s even twiddled it. Have Tanner do protocol and watch where it glitches or crashes; then you’ll have an idea where to look.”

“Huh. Yeah,” Z said, drawing the word out. “Right. Hold a mo’.”

“Actually,” James interrupted, “he’ll call back in ten or fifteen minutes.”

“But —”

“Fifteen minutes, Z. Good luck,” James said, though it came out more like a command. He met Q’s eyes, and when there was no immediate protest, James stabbed the End Call button.

“You’re fucking perfect,” Q sighed as he stretched his limbs like a cat, offering his body up to James’ touch.

James sighed deeply and stroked down to Q’s waistband, then up to cup his face. “It’s a terrible burden to bear, but yes. Yes, I am.”

Q’s entire face lit up as he broke into a laugh. He rolled over towards James, pressing their bodies together, and buried his face in James’ shoulder. Grinning foolishly, James hugged him close and kissed the top of his head, allowing himself just a few brief, precious seconds to enjoy this surprising closeness after being so careful to give Q space.

But then, the ticking clock reminded him to say, “Come on, love. Let’s get you in the shower so you can help solve this mess. Would you like me to arrange dinner, or shall I come with you?”

Raising his head to look at James with a confused expression, Q said, “Come with me into the shower? Do you really expect me to say no to that?”

Relieved, James kissed his forehead and said, “Some people need space, afterwards. But I’m more than happy to join you.”

Q hummed as he sat up. “If you’d tied me down, maybe. But right now I just want an excuse to touch you back.” He brushed his hair out of his eyes and looked worried as he added, “If that’s allowed.”

“The scene’s over, love. But” — he sat up and touched Q’s hair, then let his fingers skim over Q’s cheek — “I’ll never protest you wanting to touch me. I’ve wanted you for far too long.”

“You...” Q’s brow furrowed and he reached up to lightly touch the back of James’ hand. “You’ve wanted to _kill_ me the past couple days. I could see it in your eyes and your jaw.”

James sighed and looked down with a twinge of regret. “I took your ‘betrayal’ personally. I shouldn’t have — it’s unprofessional. That’s part of why I finally took a holiday. To figure out if I could even go back, after that.”

Q’s hands ran over James’ hair and cupped his jaw. “No one expected you to go back to work so soon after M’s funeral. I _told_ Mallory that wasn’t right. He was sure it was best for you.” He leaned down to catch James’ eye and smiled sheepishly.

“Not that.” James snorted and turned to kiss Q’s palm. “Mallory’s a bloody idiot, but... it was because of you. I trusted you completely. And when you left...” He shook his head. “I couldn’t trust _myself_ anymore. My own instincts. And that can be deadly for a field agent. Hell, if not for Alec, I would have retired.”

“Oh, James...” Q pulled James close and kissed his cheek, then rested his forehead on James’ shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Silva had us all scrambling and fearful, wanting so bloody hard to be _sure_ of everything — of every _one_ — and I thought I could help. I thought no one would miss me, and I could help to give us all peace of mind. Instead I’ve bollocksed it all up and almost lost our two best agents, my own brother, and the fucking _head_ of MI6.”

“You didn’t. You didn’t, Q,” James said immediately, hugging Q. “You came to me, and we worked it out. Christ, if you’d gone to one of the hotshot children we turn loose in the field, they might’ve —” He cut off, throat closing up with fear that he had to push aside. He rubbed his hands over Q’s back, reassuring himself, and then kissed him again. “Come on, love. Let’s get you in the shower. Then you can solve this so I can take you home and shoot Mallory in the foot.”

Q took a deep breath, which hitched in the middle, and sighed. “All right, yes. Shower first.” He kissed James’ neck and pulled away to climb off the bed. “But I hope, 007, that you know I’m smart enough not to have gone to any other agent. I don’t trust anyone like I do you. Except M.”

“In that case,” James said as he followed Q towards the bathroom, “I’ll warn him and give him a running start. More sporting that way.”

Q’s chuckle died on his lips. “Fuck. We have to bloody well _find_ him, first.”

Cursing himself for darkening Q’s mood, James caught up and wrapped his arms around Q’s body, pressing against his back. “We will, love. I promise.”

“Z and I can flush out the traitor in Q Branch, but there’s no guarantee he’s going to know where —”

“Q.” James leaned in and kissed Q’s nape, which elicited a shiver. “Stop thinking of all the ‘what ifs.’ We’re going to shower, and then you’re going to do what you can to help your brother while I order us room service for dinner. Focus on that, all right?”

Q sighed, his body relaxing as he pulled James’ arms tighter around his body. After a moment, he whispered, “Yes, sir.”

The scene was over, but that didn’t stop James from revelling in the sound — and in the trust Q placed in him. He held Q for another few seconds, then relaxed and kissed his hair, resisting the urge to give him a swat on the arse to get him moving. “Shower. Phone. Dinner. Then, I’ll help you sleep — however you like.”

“Hmm... that sounds perfect. Though, fair warning, I sleep like a bloody octopus.”

“In a tiny crevasse on the ocean floor? The hotel’s good, but not _that_ good,” James teased.

“Every limb wrapped tightly around my prey.” Q turned his head and grinned sharply at James, who grinned back.

“Back to me being your hostage, are we?”

“I’m sorry about that.” Q winced. “But believe me, that was never the way I pictured it.”

“Soft leather cuffs,” James said, closing his eyes to better imagine them. And to make sure Q was on the same page, he wrapped his fingers around Q’s wrists. “You’d be very comfortable in them.”

Q fairly purred in his ear. He started to respond, then let out a frustrated whine. “Please, James. I’ll never be able to focus on work if you tease me like this.”

“Would you like me to take care of that for you? Hands or mouth. Whatever you’d like.”

“Oh, fuck,” Q gasped. “No, no, you’re not helping. I have to call Z back soon and I want to enjoy you, not have it be a rushed job for utility’s sake.” He gave a huff and pulled James into the bathroom.

“Rushed?” James matched Q’s huff with one of his own, then gave Q a careful shove up against the wall. “I can have you pleading for release in minutes, Andrew. Do you think I can’t?”

Q eyes slid closed, and he whimpered far back in his throat. “I’ve no doubt, sir. I could come from just your voice at this rate.”

James gave Q a quick kiss. “Get in the shower. I’ll fetch a condom.”

“Don’t leave.” Q reached out to grab James’ shoulder, then put his hand back on the marble wall behind him. “Just use your hands. I won’t last long enough for anything else. It’s been too bloody long.”

A bit disappointed, James asked, “You’re certain?”

“James,” Q said, a little smile playing around his mouth. “You can have me as many times and in as many ways as you could possibly want. But we need to finish the bloody mission first. If you don’t behave, I’m going to kick you out and take my shower alone.”

Shooting Mallory in _both_ feet was an appealing idea, but later. For now, James just said, “If you insist,” and went to start the water.


	16. Chapter 16

**Friday, 23 August 2013**

Finally being able to work with Z legitimately, within MI6’s systems, was its own special kind of soul-soothing bliss. They’d always worked well together, but with Tanner’s access codes and MI6’s computing power, their enemy had no chance. He and Z finished each other’s sentences over the phone, and Q’s fingers twitched as if he were typing the letters that appeared on their shared screen.

At some point, James — Q couldn’t think of him as Bond now — brought him food, then coaxed him into remembering to pick up the fork again after each time he put it down. James was thoughtful enough that he ordered tea, too, instead of wine, earning a kiss for his efforts. And most of all, he didn’t bother Q, as though he were content to sit beside him, watchful and silent. The only time he moved was to pour himself a drink and to eventually get the phone’s power cable when the battery grew low.

“They fucking didn’t,” Z said as though reading Q’s thoughts. Though separated by thousands of kilometres, they stared at the same screen, thinking the same thing.

“What’s that?” James asked quietly enough that he wouldn’t have jarred Q out of his hacking mindset, not that he had to worry. The accounting trail before him had done that all on its own.

“This,” Q said, tapping the screen, heedless of fingerprint smudges. “That’s one of the hidden funds used for covert operations —”

“They got MI-fucking-6 to _pay_ to fucking kidnap Mallory,” Z added more bluntly.

James sat forward, and Q was abruptly put in mind of a hound straining at its lead when it caught a scent. “Who?”

“I can find out now,” Tanner said, his voice growing louder as he leaned in close to the mobile on the other end. “All entries are recorded in multiple places.”

James nodded to himself. “If they were stupid enough to use MI6 funds...”

“They won’t have covered _all_ their tracks.”

“Finding M is top priority. So Z, you and Tanner track down who the money went to and send Alec after them. I’ll work backwards to see who the idiot is that set the wheels in motion. They’re one of my minions, after all.”

“Alec’s fucking unconscious,” Z said.

“What?” James asked sharply.

“On _purpose._ Jesus fuck, Bond. He’s fucking sleeping.”

“Is he all right?” James demanded. “Was he hurt worse than he said?”

“Has he _ever_ actually fucking said how bad he was hurt? For fuck’s sake. And you thought Q and I were dating,” Z’s special brand of teasing made Q wince. James was actually worried about Alec — that was clear, though it made Q wonder how close the Double O’s really were.

“Shove off, Z. Bond asked you a question.” Q let his voice get hard enough for Z to know he was serious.

“For the love of... A couple cracked ribs, and a fucking bullet grazed his side. But he didn’t remember the last time he’d fucking had a decent night’s sleep, so there’s that.”

James sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. “All right. Thank you,” he said quietly. Q brushed the back of his hand against James’ knee in what he hoped was a comforting way.

“Q, mate...” By the uncertainty in his voice, Q could tell that Z was expressing worry for Q’s feelings. As if there were any room for jealousy in all this.

“Yes, everything’s fine, love.” Q was more than aware how his closeness with Z could be a stressor in any relationship he might have, so he couldn’t very well pitch a fit about a relationship that the Double O’s had tested through decades of life-threatening experiences, whatever its nature. It felt like a miracle that James wanted him at all, so if he was even a close second to Alec, he felt exceedingly lucky.

“He’s a fucking good bloke, Bond. You can be proud of him in all this.” Z was attempting to be kind to James, and it made Q smile.

“Thank you,” James said quietly. Then he leaned forward and said, more decisively, “Tanner, you _will_ call off the kill order —”

“Already done, 007,” Tanner interrupted. “I have a teleconference in... seven minutes with the heads of all security shifts to find out more information. And Cynthia’s called in backup support to watch the house.”

Z’s voice cut in. “She’s a fucking BAMF, Q.”

James shot Q a raised eyebrow and warned, “She’ll eat you alive, Z.”

“I think she’s already adopted him,” Tanner said with a sigh.

“I’m fucking aware, Bond. On me best behaviour, too.” The cocky lilt to Z’s voice — and the use of the ungrammatical “me” — meant he was up to something or taking the piss. The odds he’d winked at Tanner just then were higher than Q was willing to admit.

“Z. Try harder. If you play your cards right, you might be handed a job after all this is done. Which means Tanner would be one of your bosses.” Q knew his stern voice did nothing to quash Z’s antics on a good day, but he had to make the effort.

“Yeah, all right. So, what was that about saving the big man?” Z finally sounded all business again.

“Right. Follow the fucking money, stupid,” Q said, affectionately.

“Will do. You know Alec will want the name of your fucking rat in Q Branch, so send that over when you can.”

“On it. Love you.” Q’s focus was already on the accounting trail, considering the best ways to follow it back to the source.

Z responded immediately, “You too, mate. Head up...”

“Eyes clear.”

As Z rang off, James moved his hand to Q’s back and asked, “If you don’t mind me asking, what does that mean?”

Q looked over at him, saying, “What? Our sign off? It’s just a reminder to each other to be safe. It started when we ran away from home, and then morphed into a sort of signature online. I think of it as like saying, ‘I love you; take care of yourself,’ without having to actually _say_ all that.”

James chuckled softly. “‘Don’t get shot’ works equally well. Though obviously the arse skipped it this time.”

“You...” Q held his breath for a couple seconds, trying to think of a more tactful way to ask, but failing. “You love him, then?”

James shrugged, looking down into his glass. “I suppose, though...” He shook his head. “It’s never reached that point.”

“Which point is that?” Q tripped over the end of his question, almost adding the endearment “love” at the end of it, as James had done earlier, but it somehow felt presumptuous. Instead he leaned over so his shoulder fit in the hollow of James’, right at his armpit. James shifted his arm to curl his fingers around Q’s other shoulder, holding him close.

“Love?” James shrugged again. “If nothing else, he’s straight, except when a mission requires otherwise.”

Q turned towards James and rested a hand on his chest, speaking quietly. “You can love someone deeply without having sex with them, or being attracted to them. There’s never been anyone I’ve loved as much as Z. Never will be, truth be told. How is what you have not like that?”

“I suppose. Maybe it’s just not enough. Or not the right sort of enough,” James said, moving his hand to the back of Q’s neck, where he toyed with Q’s hair. “I liked this better long. And if you tell anyone that, I’ll deny it.”

“Duly noted,” Q murmured, grinning. “I was supposed to look more... _something_. Tough, I suppose? Certainly not menacing. I should have shaved it all off, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

“If you do, I’ll never forgive you,” James threatened.

“It’s _hair,_ James. It grows back. That’s the whole point. I used to keep it buzzed short all the time. Even with these bloody ears.” Q chuckled self-deprecatingly.

James lowered his voice to a mock-growl. “I normally don’t like the idea of spanking, but for that, I’d make an exception.”

“Careful, or you might just end up giving me incentive.” Q leaned further in to give James’ neck a lingering kiss.

“Mmm, before we get distracted, did you want dessert?” James asked, tipping his head back. “We’ve been neglecting ourselves for two days.”

“‘Neglecting’? I’ve never been anywhere so luxurious. But I mostly live on caffeine and sugar, so I won’t say no to dessert.” Q looked back at the computer and added, “Besides, I have my work cut out for me before bed.”

James sighed quietly. “You’re going to insist... No, you should work. What would you like? Or should I surprise you?”

Q tried to hide his frown, wondering what James was going to say. “Surprise me. You’ve been marvellous at taking care of me so far.”

“Is the tea sufficient, or would you rather have coffee?” James asked as he rose, dragging his hand across Q’s shoulders.

“Tea’s fine, as long as it never stops coming. It’s like a slow-drip IV. But order coffee for yourself.” Q was once again focusing on the accounting program on his screen.

James leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “ _I’m_ going to bed at some point. I’m still playing catch-up, and I need to be in top form whenever we leave. But I’ll get something you’ll enjoy.”

“You’re a darling. Thank you. I’ll try not to be too long.” After a moment, Q turned to look at Bond, who had moved to the desk where the phone was. “Is it all right if I join you in bed later? Or should I not risk waking you?”

“I’d be disappointed if you stayed away. And if by chance I do fall asleep, feel free to wake me however you’d like,” James added slyly. “I’ll be expecting you, so you won’t be in any danger.”

 _Right._ The perils of dating an assassin. Though, “dating” was clearly not the right term. They’d barely done anything yet. Not that their shower wasn’t seared into Q’s memory with its white heat, but nevertheless... “Place the gun where I’ll be able to see it, just in case?”

“On the bedside table. _If_ I go to sleep without you,” James said as he browsed the room service menu by the desk. “If you hit a wall or get too tired to properly function, I reserve the right to carry you off to bed and have my way with you.”

That was a novel thought — going to bed when one was actually tired. It seemed there were perks to being with James as well as perils. He smiled impishly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Saturday, 24 August 2013**

The dumb fuck was fucking impossible to wake. Z tried being gentle, because he didn’t relish the idea of being pinned to the fucking bed if Alec was startled and reacted violently, but it didn’t fucking work. 006 was dead to the world. Z almost went to ask Tanner what the fuck he’d given Alec to make him sleep so heavily, but it was very possible this was only the result of sleep dep and coming down off of uppers.

Z knew that game. He used to resort to Adderall when on all-night hacking sessions — sometimes lasting for days — and he’d crash for upwards of eighteen hours afterwards. But they didn’t have the sort of time to allow Alec half that. Z and Tanner knew who had taken Mallory and had got a pretty good idea where they might have him, so it was time to let the Double O earn his paycheck.

Well, first it was time to wake the fucker. He was sprawled out on the bed in the guest room — on top of the fucking sheets — in boxers and an elastic bandage wrapped around his broken ribs. He had scars everywhere, cuts and puncture wounds and a couple of shiny burns, implying that this latest wound really was no big deal.

And as much as Z joked about Alec’s size, he was actually fucking fit. His shoulders looked broader when bare, and the muscles of his torso and legs looked like they were chiselled from stone. He wasn’t Z’s type — too dominant, for one — but that didn’t mean Z couldn’t appreciate the beauty.

No time to get distracted; they had a fuckload of work to do. “Get the fuck up, you lazy fucker,” he muttered as he shook Alec’s shoulder.

Alec’s eyes snapped open, and he took in about a quarter of a breath before he froze with a wince. Then, with visible effort, he dragged in the rest of the breath and grunted, “I’m up. You safe?”

Z smiled at Alec’s concern for him, even though _he_ was the injured one. “Yeah. We’re at the Tanners’. They’re fucking brilliant. You know, she just fucking called up and got armed guards to fucking stand ’round the place. Safe as fucking houses, mate.”

Alec sighed and closed his eyes, though just as Z drew breath to protest, Alec sat up, teeth clenched at the effort. “Hear from James and Q?” he asked as he carefully swung his legs over the edge of the mattress.

“Q and I found a money trail. Then I let him alone to find the idiot who — get this — _paid Mallory’s kidnappers with MI6 funds._ ”

That got him a bleak, almost disappointed look. “Right. So, a _fucking idiot_ has done all this to us,” he asked, voice going low and dangerous in a way that made Z step back. “Do we have a name?”

Z had called it. Alec would make the fucker pay. That was something Z definitely did _not_ want to be around for. “Not our concern just yet. Getting Mallory clear of danger is priority one. We’ve got a lead on that, too. Tanner’s sleeping it off right now, but your orders are downstairs.”

“Food? And I’ll need clothes,” Alec said, rubbing his hands over his face. The stubble made a scratchy sound.

“Yeah. Cynthia thought of all that. There’s loads of food, and Tanner laid out some shirts that might fit. Your jeans are clean, too. She’s fucking marvellous.” Z rarely met people that deserved so much of his respect so immediately. Cynthia had impressed the fuck out of him from the start, and in a much more civilised way than he was used to — a fucklot more civilised than Alec, for one. “But you’re wrong, mate.”

“I’m never wrong. I get to shoot anyone who says otherwise.” Alec got to his feet, then looked down at his cracked ribs as if they’d personally offended him. Probably had.

“Whoever did all this isn’t a fucking idiot. They’ve got a fucking chip on their shoulder, but they know what they’re doing. It’s just that Q and I are better than them. Granted, combined, we’re fucking better than _anyone,_ so it’s not a fair fight. But they covered their fucking tracks enough it took us this long.” Z shook his head. He’d hoped to get more than a couple hours sleep last night, but, apart from the accounting slip, the trail on his end had been fucking hard to follow. He hoped Q’s had been easier. “Blessing in disguise, though — you got to sleep for eight solid hours, mate.”

“Your turn. Crash,” Alec said, pointing at the rumpled but still-made bed. He went to the chest of drawers, where there were a few folded shirts on top, and started searching the tags to find one that would fit. “I’ll bring you back either some bastard’s head or Mallory, alive, so you can yell at him.”

“Can’t crash. Too wired. And I don’t fucking care about him, honestly. I just know Q does. And that means I’ll fucking break every law in the book to help make him safe, but that’s about it. You and Bond? That’s another story.” Z was rambling, and he knew it, but he was fucking high off Cynthia’s delicious coffee and a good long digital manhunt. He sat down on the bed and drummed on his thighs as he waited for Alec to finish dressing.

“Me and Bond? Me and Bond what?” Alec asked as he pulled on one of the shirts, taking care with his movements. “Didn’t we have this conversation?”

“Which one’s that? Do you want me to...” Z gestured to the shirt. He didn’t want to say the word “help” out loud because he didn’t think Alec would accept.

“Fuck if I know.” Alec frowned at him and started buttoning the shirt. “Be glad I remember coming here at all. Christ, I was tired.”

“Right. Whatever you were on, gimme some next time.” Z rolled his eyes fondly at Alec. “What is it with you and Bond, anyway?” Q would hate him for asking, but Z had less than zero brain-to-mouth filter at this point.

“What the fuck _else_ were we supposed to do after the SBS? Go into banking?” Alec brushed the shirt smooth, then picked up his jeans.

“I meant... Never mind. Point is, I’d break a fuckload of laws for you lot. Just saying.” Z bounced up off the bed and headed to the door.

“You won’t have to. For now, you’re working for me. When” — Alec grunted as he bent over to put on his jeans — “this is all over, I’m recruiting you. Give you legal access to MI6’s mainframes or whatever the bloody hell they keep in the basement.”

“Yeah, we’ll talk about that later.” Z made good money freelancing, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to give that up and go legit. Besides, half the fun was doing illegal stuff and not getting caught. “Come on. Let’s eat. I’m fucking starving.”

It took effort for Alec to get his other leg into the jeans and then pull them up over his hips. “I didn’t say there was a choice, felon.” He snorted, but it turned into another grunt when he tried to tuck the shirt into his jeans. He gave up on that and did up the flies instead. “Besides, if you were actually a part of MI6, you probably wouldn’t have let your brother get in this fucking mess in the first place. Right?”

“Fuck, no. I would have gone in his place. Everyone knows I’m better at cloak and dagger than he is.” Z smiled sharply at Alec, only halfway joking. “And felon’s such a harsh word, mate. I like to think I’m more of a Robin Hood type.”

“Yeah, well, time for Robin Hood to quit the bloody forest and come keep our arses safe in the field.” Alec tugged the shirt down again, swiped a hand through his hair, and asked, “You’re not going to sleep, are you?”

For a moment, Z was tongue-tied at the idea that Alec wanted _him_ of all people to keep the field agents safe. After all the trouble he’d put Alec through over the last two days (how was it not a week?) to keep them both from fucking dying... He supposed turnabout was fair play, after all. If they all managed to pull this fucking mission off, he’d bloody well owe Alec that much, if not a whole lot more.

For the time being, he shrugged the comment off and said, “Look, mate. I’ve drunk three pots of coffee and ate two packets of fucking digestives since you went to bed. And that beautiful fucking creature is making a fucking huge fry up for us as we fucking speak. I'm fighting you for half of it and will probably pledge my undying love to her before I pass out.”

Alec had a silly grin on his face. “Right. So, if Cynthia’s the one cooking, you do know she’s got marksmanship scores off the charts, don’t you?” he asked as he headed out into the hallway, barefoot. He didn’t have to look around to zero in on the loo.

Z leaned his back against the doorframe and put his hand on his heart. “Fuck. I’m done for. If there’s one thing I’ve got, it’s a competence kink.” Then he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.

Alec kicked the door closed, though it barely latched. After a minute of water running, he came back out, looking marginally more awake. “I’m never introducing you to James. He’s the one who’s gay, or close enough.”

“He’s Q’s. I’m not going anywhere near him. We got over our sexual competition a long time ago, and I usually go for folks further on the feminine side of the spectrum, anyway. Though if he’s half as pretty as you, Q’s a lucky sod.” Z needed to shut the fuck up and get some food in him already. He tried to stand but his balance was off from the caffeine jitters.

“Not nearly as pretty, but better dressed. Fucking bespoke suits. Christ, it’s irritating having him go on about matching ties or cufflinks.” Alec leaned down, or tried to. He bent over by about six inches before he froze and pressed a hand to his ribs with a quiet grunt of pain. “Bugger. Here,” he said, extending his hand to Z instead.

Z batted it away and said, “I’m not making your fucking broken arse help me up. I can do it.” He took his time standing and chuckled at how not functional the two of them were. What a fucking pair. He nudged Alec’s shoulder as they headed to the stairs, saying, “You fucking love it, don’t you? The suits. I bet he looks fucking stellar in them.”

“You’re mad. Every time he puts one on, he tries to make _me_ get one, too,” Alec complained, leaning against the railing for balance. The staircase turned back on itself partway up, making room for a tiny lift sized for Cynthia’s wheelchair. “As it was, the shirt you bit me through was some horrid expensive bespoke thing. Three fucking fittings and a book of fabrics... You and your bloody bad habits.”

Z rolled his eyes at Alec. “If it broke you of your bad habit of sneaking into strangers’ flats to wave a fucking gun in their faces, I’ll consider it a job well done. You all right, or should I have shoved you in the lift?”

“Sod off. I’m fine. I’m going to have breakfast and a handful of paracetamol, then go find that bastard Mallory and break something important for sending your brother out into the cold without proper backup.”

“You know what? Fuck you. Q did fine for nine and a half fucking months. It was the fact that Mallory left the back door open that was the problem, not my fucking brother. For him to go into deep cover on his first fucking mission takes guts, so back the fuck off.” Z was tired. He wouldn’t be able to sleep for at least an hour, but he was bone-tired nonetheless. He was sick of worrying about Q, of waking to every fucking alert on his phone in case it was something important, of spending hours online or on the phone helping Q work out a problem or simply letting him vent his own fears. They couldn’t get Mallory safe fast enough, but only because it meant Q could come the fuck home.

“Hey. Q did fucking brilliantly, staying alive and on mission for as long as he did. You _both_ did,” Alec said gently, stopping at the foot of the stairs. He put a hand on Z’s shoulder and ducked down to catch Z’s eyes. “This isn’t on you or him. This is Mallory sending a civilian out into the cold. It’s the field agents — me and James — who don’t expect to survive our missions. Q shouldn’t have that worry.”

“But he was the only one who could have conceivably done this one. You know he dismantled almost all of Silva’s network, right? And they only trusted him because he had the tech _and_ the know-how. No offence to you and James, but this took someone as good as Q, and there isn’t anyone in the world as good, except me.” Z sighed. “Bad luck that some power-hungry fucking berk decided he could fuck with MI6 while Q was away.”

“Q didn’t have to go alone,” Alec said quietly. “That’s what I’m saying. He could’ve had any one of us go along. Hired gun, lover, whatever would’ve worked best for his story. We’re the ones who signed up for that sort of thing. He should’ve had someone next to him this whole time, ready to take a bullet, instead of leaving him to wonder if he’d make it to the next day out there by himself.”

Z really _was_ tired. Just the thought of Q having been as closely protected as Z had been for the past couple of days, instead of never being able to sleep and always saying his goodbyes before meeting face-to-face with Silva’s people, it made Z’s eyes sting and his throat close. “That...” He shook his head and sniffed. “I knew I wasn’t enough, but I never fucking imagined he could have had that. Everyone was too fucking paranoid to allow a Double O off their lead that far, I think.”

“Mallory,” Alec said with certainty. “He came to us from the outside. Didn’t know who to trust — not that I can fucking blame him, as we all know. But M... the _old_ M... She would never have been this reckless. Not with a civilian. With us...” he said dryly, then shrugged and started walking again, sniffing the air before following the scent of bacon and fresh bread towards the back of the house.

Z was right behind him. “All right, but listen, Alec. Mallory is Q’s M. They were thick as thieves, and Mallory did all he could for Q out there. So don’t take the piss in front of Q, ’cause he’s going to be touchy about that. Hear me?”

“Shit.” Alec rubbed at his face again and shook his head. “I’m sorry. Too bloody old and stubborn to think of anyone but that fucking bitch in M’s seat. I’ll let James know.”

“Thanks. Fuck, it smells good in here. Let’s fucking eat. My insides are devouring each other. Tanner’s instructions, or whatever they are, are right there.” Z pointed to the file folder on the dining room table. “I can fill you in if necessary.”

An eager light came into Alec’s eyes, and his jaw set. He headed right for the dining room table and said, “Good. Let’s catch that bastard and bring our two home.”

 

~~~

 

“Andrew?”

The deep voice roused Q just enough for him to shift on the soft mattress. A soft touch tugged the blanket down enough for gentle fingers to comb through his hair.

“Andrew? Darling?”

“Hmmm?” Q had no desire to open his eyes, and even if he did, it wouldn’t help much. For the first time in forever he’d actually taken his contacts out before bed. He pressed into the touch, however, wondering if he could ever possibly get sick of something that felt so good. “What is it?”

“I wish I could let you sleep” — the blanket slid down enough for soft, warm lips to touch his cheek — “but your brother called. They’re sending a retrieval team for Mallory. He said you’d want to know.”

“Oh, my God. They _found_ him?” Q fought with the blanket to sit up and squinted hard at James. “Where? Is Alec going to — tell me Z’s not — Fuck.” They were going to get M back. Thank fuck. And then Q could go _home._ His hand shook as he reached out for James, who took hold of Q’s fingers and gave a gentle tug, urging Q into his arms.

“Z’s on the phone,” he said as he wrapped Q up safely against his chest. “Alec’s gone to the retrieval with a Ministry of Defence team.”

“Where? Where’s Z? Give him here.” James felt so good — so calm, somehow, and steady — but Q needed to know what was happening. He needed to know immediately if M was all right. He understood intellectually that it wasn’t _his_ fault M had been kidnapped, but he couldn’t help feeling responsible.

Did James sigh regretfully, or was that simply a quiet exhale? Q couldn’t be sure. Either way, James let him go and got off the bed. “The phone’s in the other room. I’ve had them bring breakfast while you slept in,” he said, heading for the ensuite. “It’s after eleven.”

Q called after him as he climbed out of bed, “I have to put my contacts in.” They met in the ensuite doorway, James holding a dressing gown for Q to slip on. “Thanks, love.”

“There’s tea, but you’re going to eat as well. You were living off caffeine last night.”

“There’s nothing new about that. Besides, you’re the one who got me such a decadent chocolate dessert.” Q inclined his face for a kiss as he inched past James, who obliged with a smile.

“And you’re the one who crept into bed rather than waking me in a more interesting way,” James complained, though he was smiling through his words. “Don’t feel compelled to put on clothes. If all goes well, I’d be happy to take you back to bed — or maybe out to one of the lounge chairs in the sun.”

“Mmm... That sounds worth the wait. I was too knackered to do anything but spoon you last night, but I enjoyed it immensely, all the same.” Q opened his contact case and rinsed the lenses.

“As did I. I’m just teasing,” James said with a soft laugh before he left the bedroom.

Q quickly put in his contacts and brushed his teeth, then used the facilities before walking out to the living room to find the phone and hear what Z had to say. He wasn’t sure if his stomach churning was hunger or nerves about the outcome of the retrieval.

The mobile was next to his laptop, and he went right for it, swiping the screen to wake it up. James had left it on speaker, so he said, “Wotcher, Z. Talk to me.”

“He’s fucking stubborn as fuck, Q. Even after Tanner and Cynthia ordered an SAS retrieval team, he _still_ wanted to fucking go. And him unable to get his fucking shoes on without help.”

“Welcome to wrangling Double O’s. Not all fun and games, I can assure you.”

James settled in beside Q and put an arm on the back of his chair as he leaned in close. “I’ll show you who’s wrangling whom later, if you’d like,” he whispered.

Q couldn’t hide how his breath hitched, and he murmured, “Not helping,” as he tried to concentrate on Z’s response.

“ — _how_ you do it. Tanner just fucking waved him off and gave me a long-suffering look...” Z’s voice got quieter as if he’d pulled the mobile away from his mouth. “What? You absolutely rolled over for him, don’t fucking deny it.” Then came something garbled that sounded like a woman’s laughter, as if the microphone couldn’t pick it up from a distance.

“Z, focus. Where are they headed?” Q was having his own trouble focusing with James sitting so close to him.

“I dunno. Someplace all the way out in fucking Zone Six. The money trail led to some front company that hired cars from some fucking shady outfit called Janus or some shit, and from that we ran plate numbers... It was a long fucking night. Tanner’s a bulldog, and Cynthia’s a god damned saint.”

“Did you sleep at all?” Q suddenly realised how nonstop Z and Alec’s search had been. And here he’d been luxuriating in bed with the most beautiful man he’d ever met.

“A bit, yeah. Alec got eight hours, thank fuck. I got two? three? Enough. I didn’t want to miss this.”

“Well, what’s happening?”

“Fuck if I know. A lot of standing around at present. It’s some bloody abandoned warehouse they’re all gathering at,” Z said. He sounded tired. Fed up. If M didn’t at least give him a commendation or a job, Q was going to throw a fit. _If_ , that was, M actually pulled through all this.

“Is that the Quartermaster?” Q recognised Tanner’s voice in the distance.

“Yes, sir.” Q spoke up a bit, even found himself sitting straighter. Tanner was a friend but also acting head of MI6 for the time being, though that didn’t stop James’ arm from going momentarily tight around Q’s shoulders.

“007 refused to give your current location,” Tanner said a bit sharply. His voice was louder but still on speaker; Q suspected Z wasn’t about to let himself be sidelined. “If _you’re_ willing, we can arrange for your safe return to London through proper channels.”

“Bugger proper channels,” James said flatly. “I can get the Quartermaster safely back to London.”

In a much more reasonable tone, Tanner said, “James, you’re on holiday.”

“Let’s get M home first, before we worry about me. I’m perfectly safe where I am,” Q said. He heard a sigh that sounded close to the microphone, and he winced at Z’s impatience. “Speaking of, what’s happening?”

“The team’s on the ground, infiltrating as quietly as they can, in broad daylight.”

“And 006? He isn’t going to be in harm’s way again, is he?” Q found his voice going sharp and hoped Tanner wouldn’t take offence.

“He’s gone as the team’s MI6 liaison. Standard protocol when an MI6 official is involved,” Tanner said blithely.

“Can you see Alec waiting outside for the team to radio it’s safe?” James asked much more bluntly.

“James has a point, Tanner.”

“Alec knows his limits better than any of those hacks in Medical,” James added.

Tanner sighed. “And this is why I didn’t even try. Haven’t you learned that yet, Q?”

Z broke in before Q could answer. “ _I’ve_ bloody learned that, but it doesn’t mean he’s always right. He wouldn’t be standing right now if three fucking people hadn’t ordered him to bed last night, and I hadn’t shook him awake and fed him up this morning. If that’s knowing your limits, you lot are fucking doing it wrong. How the fuck do you survive in the field, Bond?”

“Z...” Q warned.

“We’re very talented,” James said casually. “You’ve been working with Alec for two days. You should know that.”

“I know it’s the pills and sheer fucking bull-headedness,” Z scoffed.

“ _And_ talent,” James said, giving Q a look as though asking for his support.

Q gave him a noncommittal shrug and warily asked, “What pills, Z?”

“Fuck if I know. Some sort of uppers. Aside from the painkillers.”

“Tanner? What’s he on about?” Q wondered how much had changed since he’d left.

Tanner sighed again. “As I understand it, it’s a medication used to treat narcolepsy and temporary sleep disorders from working off shift. Medical was _supposed_ to be investigating its use for field agents in crises, not handing it out like sweets at Christmas.”

Q looked at James, aghast. “Well, that’s vexing.”

“My point exactly.” Z sighed, and Q understood.

He leaned in to James and softly murmured, “He’s worried for Alec. He’s only cross because he cares.”

James rubbed Q’s back comfortingly. “You said he slept last night, Z?”

“Yeah. He did. And he let Cynthia look at the wound, but his ribs still hurt him a fucking lot. Look, never mind. I sound like I’ve a bleeding crush on him, but he saved my fucking life, and I just don’t want...” There was a bump and a fumbling sound and a very distant, “Fuck.”

Then Tanner’s voice, a lot louder than before, said, “Er, Q?” Z had apparently handed the mobile over.

“It’s all right. Let him walk it off.” Q tried to sound calm, but everything felt a little off kilter. It had been such a long time now that Z had been his rock, to hear him that upset was unnerving. This whole mission had been hard on them all, and now at the very end was when things started to fray. He leaned closer to James for comfort and took a deep breath to steady himself. “Anything to report, Tanner?”

“Nothing just yet. The team’s neutralised a guard, so they’re moving more quickly now,” Tanner reported.

“In case the guard was meant to check in,” James explained quietly, still holding Q close to his side.

Q nodded in understanding at James and said aloud, “All right. Keep us posted. We’re right here.”

“If possible, they’ll have taken the guard’s radio to listen in — assuming they’re not already electronically eavesdropping,” James said loudly enough for the phone to pick up.

“We are,” Tanner said a bit smugly.

“Please tell me you went outside of Q Branch for all of that.” Q had spent a good hour last night beating himself up for allowing such a power-hungry traitor to nest in his own department for so long. He couldn’t stand the idea of this operation being thwarted from an oversight as well.

“It’s all going through our secure servers at Chick— er, another MoD location,” Tanner said sheepishly.

Q smiled in relief. “All right. Thank you. Has Alec gone in with them?”

“Oh, yes...” There was a faint clatter, and then Tanner’s voice sharpened, as if he’d turned off speaker. “Z’s left the secure room. Is he...”

“He’ll be fine. I doubt he’ll show up again to listen, but do tell him how things went at the end. It’s been a long ten months for him, and then the past two days have been, well...” Difficult wasn’t the word — Z thrived on challenge. But he didn’t take to people easily, and if he and Alec had got on as well as it seemed, then adding another person to worry about must have put him at his limit. “He needs a fucking break.”

“Quite understandable,” Tanner said. “Though there may be no chance for official recognition due to the secrecy, he has the gratitude of all of MI6. You both do.”

Q sighed. It was _something._ “Thanks, Bill. And thanks for taking care of him. I know he can be spikey...”

“Oh, he’s utterly smitten with Cyn— Hang on,” Tanner said more sharply.

James picked up the mobile and stood. Q rose quickly as if tethered to the device and followed James to the couch. Soon, they were curled up together with the mobile balanced on James’ knee, and James was rubbing his back. Q closed his eyes to concentrate on the touch. It was grounding and helped him endure what felt like a long couple of minutes before Tanner spoke again.

“Hostile contact confirmed. They’ve split into teams to clear each floor. There’s a medic with each team,” he added reassuringly.

“Do you have an idea of the enemy force?” James asked.

“Small. And unprepared for a direct assault. We’ll have this cleaned up shortly.”

“Thank God,” Q sighed. “Tanner, I need to know M’s condition, no matter what. All right?”

“Of course,” Tanner said, his voice soft. “I understand.”

“Mallory’s a tough old bastard,” James added, hugging Q briefly before he went back to rubbing Q’s back.

“Yes, but we don’t know what he’s been up against.” Q felt stretched thin, taut, drawn out. He had successfully avoided thinking about what could have been done to M over the past three days, telling himself that someone who had resisted interrogation at the hands of the IRA would come out whole on the other side of this. But three days could be as long or as short as his captors wanted them to be. They could have turned him inside out in seventy hours, and Q would have lost his boss. More than that, his friend, co-worker, commanding officer, confessor. His reason for taking on a field mission, and his only official support. His M.

The next ten or fifteen minutes were some of the longest and most difficult of Q’s life. If James hadn’t been with him, he would have lost his nerve a dozen times over. Instead he relied heavily on the gentle touches, soft kisses, and quietly spoken words of encouragement to combat the fears and self-recriminations that threatened to strip him of his sanity in the gaps between Tanner’s status updates.

And then, distantly, Q heard the words, _“Package secure,”_ and James tensed.

“What?” Q asked sharply. “What’s that —”

“They’ve found Mallory,” Tanner said, words tumbling out in a breathy rush. “Report, 006.”

“Secure,” James told Q. “That means he’s alive. Safe.”

 _Alive._ That could mean so many things, but at least it meant the one — that M was back in MI6’s hands. They’d brought him home. Whatever else they had to deal with was secondary to that. Q swore violently and clutched at James’s arm, pulling him close. He held his breath, listening hard for any hint from Tanner as to M’s condition.

Agonising seconds passed before Tanner reported, “006 has him. They’re exfiltrating now. That means he’s...”

“He’s either on his feet, or he’s able to be moved,” James finished with the blunt attitude of a man ripping off medical tape in one quick pull, rather than one painful centimetre at a time.

“That’s still not helpful. Not specific enough. Tell me _how he is,_ Tanner.” Q’s hand hurt from holding James so tightly, and he felt like his arm muscles were vibrating with the strain.

Instead of answering directly, Tanner said, “Report, 006... No, now _is_ the time. At least give me his condition.”

“Q...” James turned and kissed his cheek. “We shouldn’t distract them. Not until they’re in transit back home.”

“I can’t, James. I’ll be sick over this — actually violently ill.” Q could feel his gorge rising and breathed as deeply as he could to calm down.

James nodded and turned to the mobile. “Bill, tell him James needs to know.”

Tanner’s irritated huff carried clearly even over the cheap mobile’s speakerphone. “One day, we’re going to discuss protocol,” he muttered before relaying James’ message. Q held his breath until Tanner came back, saying, “He’s walking and well enough to carry a gun — _No, Trevelyan._ Christ, you’re not to go hunting them for a bit of revenge!”

“See?” James asked, hugging Q close. “Alec’s got the situation well in hand.”

 _Halle-fucking-luia._ M had use of his feet. And his hands. Q sighed so deeply, when he breathed in again it sounded like a gasp. He buried his face against James’ chest and thanked every deity known to humanity. He shivered as if covered in cold sweat, allowing himself one dry, wracking sob. Then he focused on his breathing to stay calm enough to receive the bad news. There were all manner of tortures that left the body whole enough to function. Q just had to hope M was still relatively resistant, even given the inevitable PTSD from the first time.

But this was enough. It was possible to live with this. M was mostly intact and completely safe. There was nothing more important than that. Q sat up, found the breath to say, “Thank you, Tanner,” then motioned for James to ring off.

“Tell Alec to call me when he’s safe,” James said, hanging up only once Tanner confirmed. Then he turned to Q and touched his face, asking, “What can I do for you, love?”

“Just stay right here with me. I’ll be all right in a moment, but for now just...” Q pressed as close as he could, holding James too tightly though he couldn’t make himself loosen his grasp.

“Take all the time you need. And then” — James kissed the top of Q’s head — “we can finally bring you home.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Monday, 26 August 2013**

MI6 had a process for everything, including the return of an executive who’d been seconded to field duty under traumatic circumstances over a long duration. No one had told Z that, which meant that he technically kidnapped Q for twelve hours upon meeting him at the airport late Saturday night, rather than allowing MI6 to bring him in for a post-mission medical evaluation. Q suspected that Alec and James conspired to keep MI6 from sending an aggressive retrieval team, but he made sure to report to MI6 all the same early Monday morning.

After two hours in Medical (and the loss of a pint of blood for various tests) and another two in Psych, where Q avoided speaking about James in all but the most professional terms, he was finally able to see Mallory, entirely by accident. He nearly ran down Mallory in the hall outside the senior counsellor’s office.

Mallory was impeccably dressed as always and looked healthy, despite bruising and cuts on his face, scored knuckles, and the cane he used to help support his weight on the right side. “Welcome back, Andrew,” he said, switching the cane to his left hand to offer his right to Q.

“Oh, God. M. Sir.” Q’s hand shot out to shake M’s — gently — and he swallowed the lump in his throat to add, “I’m so very glad to see you’re all right.”

“You as well. I’m so sorry you ended up having to — Well, that is to say, attempted kidnapping of a Double O.” Mallory chuckled a bit uncomfortably. “Very resourceful.”

Q winced. “It was a bit of a mess, honestly. But I needed access to MI6 personnel. And without you, I was worried about exposure.”

“And for your next act, you could poke a rattlesnake with a stick,” Mallory teased. “But it was definitely a clever solution. Honestly, I’m not certain I would’ve had the bollocks. Well done, Quartermaster.”

“Thank you, sir.” Q felt his neck and face flush at the praise. “It was more due to the loyalty and effectiveness of 007 and 006 than cleverness on my part. And Z...”

“I understand he had a substantial part in both your safety and the rescue effort,” Mallory said, again turning a bit uncomfortable, this time at the mention of his own captivity. “006 made certain to drop me a note to that effect.”

That sounded both ill-advised and inappropriate. Not that it would stop 006, of course. Q nodded and tried to not feel awkward as he said, “Z is very good at his job — every bit as effective as I am. And he and 006 worked oddly well together. They took on a remarkable amount of the work of finding you — and much of the danger, as well.”

“So I hear. But this isn’t the place,” Mallory said regretfully. “Perhaps we can catch up after this afternoon’s security briefing. Or have you been put on mandatory leave?”

Q shrugged. Medical had strongly suggested just that, but Q wasn’t about to walk out before being certain MI6 was as safe as possible. “Effective as soon as I’ve established safe protocols in my absence. Removing the weak link in Q Branch left quite a few holes to patch. I hope to start my leave tomorrow.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help —” Mallory cut off with a wince. “I suppose tell Tanner. I’ve no doubt I’m going to be sent off straight away.”

“I should hope so, sir. We need you at your best. And Tanner will keep the ship in good trim while you’re recovering.” Q smiled reassuringly, and after a nod of farewell, Mallory let himself into the senior psychiatrist’s office. Q suspected the doctor would find Mallory every bit as difficult as any of the Double O’s when it came to taking time off for himself. He’d worked tirelessly to support Q over the past ten months, and for that Q would be forever grateful.

As Q headed to the bank of lifts down the hall, he wondered if James was in the building — no, 007; he _had_ to speak of Bond appropriately at work. Not that Q had any sort of excuse to seek him out. He could come up with something... _Or_ he could go to Q Branch and get his work done so that he could go home and recover from all of this properly.

Z had been the perfect host since Q had got home, letting him sleep and feeding him up with a minimum of questions and a maximum amount of care. Not to mention the easy, comfortable companionship they had always shared.

But after the last three days of his exile/mission, he missed James. Q wasn’t typically a cuddly person, but being around James felt so good, Q couldn’t help wanting to touch him. Was it possible that their situationally enforced antagonism had somehow brought them closer once it was lifted? Whatever it was, Q had actually been reluctant to leave their Spanish sanctuary, not wanting their little bubble of safety to burst. He feared they’d never find that level of comfort with each other again once they were back in their “normal” lives.

Entering Q Branch was an odd homecoming in itself. Everyone had been briefed on the situation —- his mission, the reinstatement of his role, the removal of the real traitor — but it was both awkward and comforting to step back into the place. And then someone spotted him and started a round of applause that left him standing paralysed in the entrance, wondering what to do. Waving seemed inappropriately “royal,” telling them to stop felt ungrateful, and hiding wasn’t an option. Thankfully, it tapered off quickly enough, and Q was able to find it in himself to smile and nod before walking steadily to his office. The techs watched for only a few seconds before going back to their work.

Things went back to normal for everyone alarmingly quickly. The problems they faced in cleaning up after the security breach, upgrading the system, and establishing new protocols were engrossing enough to keep everyone occupied. Q felt it was a blessing that both he and his coworkers could concentrate on the real, concrete issues they faced, instead of any possible interpersonal drama.

But no sooner had Q logged into his computer — and what a relief it was to be in the office that had been vacated this past weekend so it could be _his_ once again — than he sensed a hush falling outside. He looked through the glass doors to see his staffers all staring at someone or something moving through the cubicles and work tables...

And then James stepped into view, tapping politely on the door even as he reached for the handle. Q’s heart smacked against his chest at the sight of his Double O. Well, not _his,_ not since they’d come home. But he couldn’t help but flutter a bit in anticipation of being in close proximity to James again. He found he couldn’t erase the nervous smile from his face as James walked in wearing his customary impeccable suit.

“Welcome back, Quartermaster,” James said, and Q’s heart stopped at the formal, polite sound. But James kept walking, and as the door swung shut, he said, “You’re just in time for me to take you out to lunch.”

Q had _so much_ work to do before taking leave. And at the moment, he couldn’t care a flying fuck. “I suppose I am. Did you have someplace in mind?”

James stepped unnecessarily close to the desk, staring right into Q’s eyes. “Several someplaces. Though I’d much prefer to take you home and cook for you.”

“I...” Did James mean his own home? And if so, was he planning on offering more than lunch? Q was tempted by the idea that it might feel as if they were once again hidden away from everything in their own little world. But if he was given that secure bubble once again, would he ever want to leave it? He cleared his throat and said, “I have to be back for a security briefing.”

“I could make it a kidnapping, if you’d like. I have very comfortable cuffs,” James offered with a wicked smile.

Q lost his breath and felt his cheeks go red so fast it was as if someone had slapped them. “Interesting, but unnecessary. I’ll start leave tomorrow, if all goes well today.”

“Dinner tonight, then,” James suggested. He flattened his hand on Q’s desk and slid it close to Q’s mouse, where his own hand was still resting. “I’ll even cook for your brother. I’d love to meet him — as long as we can convince him to leave at a reasonable hour.”

“Fair warning, he’s going to be an obnoxious arse. He likes to make a good first impression that way.” Q smiled fondly. “But he’ll be more than happy to find his own entertainment for the night.”

“And I’ll be very happy” — James all but purred that — “to entertain _you_ for the night. And perhaps the rest of your leave? At least whatever time you’d be willing to give me...”

 _Oh._ “Really?” Q hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but James’ offer had caught him off guard. “I hadn’t thought you’d...” He clamped his mouth shut before he could put his foot in it.

James closed the last two inches between their hands. His touch shot electric tingles right up to Q’s shoulder and down his spine. “I’ll come get you at five. We can discuss what you thought I’d...” He grinned.

Q’s brain finally caught up, and his mouth engaged on overdrive. “I’d love to. I can’t promise all of it, because I need to spend time with Z, but yes. Yes, please.” After a moment he remembered to address the actual topic at hand and added, “I’m not sure I’ll be finished at five. I shouldn’t be _too_ long after that...”

One finger stroked over the back of Q’s hand. “Perhaps I’ll pull a fire alarm at two minutes past. Until then, Quartermaster.”

The suggestive touch and the formal title together spiked Q’s heart rate and flushed his skin once again. He couldn’t help but show at least a hint of deference. “Yes, Commander Bond.”

James’ finger froze, pressed against Q’s skin as though trapped there. Then a wicked smile slowly curved his lips, and he slid his hand away. As he turned and walked out of the office, Q could only watch — stare, really — until the door swung closed and he was out of sight. That man’s arse was more compelling than it had any right to be.

 _Tonight._ James wanted to see him tonight. _And_ for most of his leave. Q felt slightly dizzy. After the most difficult and dangerous year of his life, to finally be home and safe and _himself_ again, and then for James Fucking Bond to want to spend weeks with him... It was a little too much to process.

Q endeavoured to push it out of his brain for the next six hours. He needed to focus on making everyone as safe as he’d been his last day in Spain, or he wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving. This was _his_ department, after all, and M trusted him implicitly to take as good care of it — and the rest of MI6’s security — as he possibly could.

 

~~~

 

James lived in what he considered to be a modest flat with a quiet park view beyond the grand windows that had caught his eye the very first day he’d seen it. Over the years, he’d considered moving — thank God Alec had bought the flat when M had gleefully sold it to teach James a lesson — but he’d never quite found the incentive. Instead, he’d put all his money towards the boat that was even now on its way back to England with a hired crew guaranteed, supposedly, to keep her in perfect shape.

He regretted that thrift now, because other than the view, the flat offered little in the way of grandeur. Of course, that just meant it was tactically sound to distract Q the moment they were in the door — which James did, pulling the Quartermaster into a scorching kiss before the door was even latched, much less locked. Q made the most gorgeous sounds, breathy and sharp and demanding, and he crushed the lapels of James’ suit jacket with his strong, deft fingers, holding their bodies pressed close together.

“I hope you brought dinner!”

Q jumped and almost bit James’ lip, then pulled away, eyes wide. James sighed and looked down the hall, muttering, “Of course. That’s Alec.”

“006 is _here?_ ” Q fairly whispered.

Then his face showed even more shock when they heard another voice say, “I thought you were bringing my brother. Oh, wotcher, Q.”

James looked past Q — and saw the dark mirror of _his_ Q. Same build, same eyes, same mouth. Everything else was harder, sharper, and dark — as in black. Heavy black boots, tight black leather trousers, a faded Ramones T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. Silver wallet chain and buckles on the boots and jacket, and silver hardware in close to eight visible piercings. Dyed black hair spiked up in all directions.

James actually had to check _his_ Q to make certain he hadn’t been drugged. He’d had more than one experience with hallucinogens in the past. Never pleasant ones, either.

 _“Z!”_ Alec shouted. It sounded like he was in the kitchen. Of course, he was. “Tell him to get in here and bring dinner!”

“They don’t fucking have anything,” Z called at Alec as if exasperated, but he had a broad smile on his face. He walked over to them and held out his hand, shrugging a bit sheepishly. “Alec said I was invited, but I should know better than to fucking listen to that arse.”

“That’s because I have a terrible habit of feeding that bastard,” James said, clasping Z’s hand. The similarities were obvious, but it was the subtle differences that caught James’ attention. Z was even more skin and bones, for one, but he had an aggressive strength to his handshake, where Q was more wary, more careful of preserving his hands. And where Q was calm and analytical, Z looked like the type to fight first and analyse whatever was left.

“How did you get in?” Q sounded a bit shell shocked as Z pulled him into a tight hug.

“Front door, of course.” As Z pulled away, he cupped Q’s jaw affectionately for just a moment, looking closely at his face. “I can drag him out of here if you two want to be alone...”

“He’ll just come back,” James said, walking past the twins — _twins!_ — to go yell at Alec. “He’s like that ghost in the movie with the little girl and the telly.”

“ _The Ring?”_ Z called after him.

“The other one,” Alec answered. _“Poltergeist.”_

“ _The Ring_ wasn’t bad,” James admitted as he turned the corner into his kitchen.

Alec turned away from the fridge and grinned. “What’s for dinner?”

“Three days’ bed rest, to start,” James said, gesturing at Alec’s broken ribs. “What the hell are you doing on your feet?”

“Taking Z out.”

“Bollocks!” Z appeared in the doorway with Q in tow — literally; Z was tugging at his sleeve. “I’m showing him around a few of my favourite clubs.”

“Oh, as if I need _your_ help,” Alec said before he went wide-eyed. “Right, James, that’s just... At least we won’t have to tag them to tell them apart.”

The twins turned to each other and rolled their eyes fondly. Z gestured to his face and said, “Not with all the—”

“— hardware he’s got.” Q’s grin went sharp as he added, “This way you’ll know immediately if you’re kissing the wrong one, James.” Z licked his lip ring and smiled, one eyebrow high.

“Bugger that,” Alec said. “The spiky one bites.”

“You’ve mentioned that once or twice,” James said, eyeing the mess on the counter. “Which of you two idiots was trying to make coffee?”

Z raised his hands as if in surrender. “Not me. That’s one thing I actually fucking know how to do.”

James turned to Alec, who gave his best innocent look — the one he was actually good at, thanks to all the practice. “What? I’m wounded. Tell him, Z.”

“Have done. Sometimes I fucking feel like I need to tell _you,_ mate.” Z shook his head at Alec.

A bit stunned at how smoothly the two of them worked together, James turned to Q and asked, “Are _they_ dating?”

“My God, I _hope_ not.” The moment it was out of Q’s mouth, his eyes went wide and he said, “Sorry, 006. That wasn’t to do with you.” A bit sheepishly, Q held out his hand, and James realised he hadn’t introduced them.

“Call me Alec. I don’t have to check James for bite marks, do I?” Alec asked, shaking Q’s hand.

“Try it, and I’ll shoot you,” James said a touch regretfully. He could remember a time when he would’ve given anything for even that excuse to have Alec’s hands on him.

Z’s grin was as much for James and Alec as it was Q. “How does it feel to be the only sub in the room, Q, love?”

James felt his neutral “working” mask drop down and saw Alec’s do the same. They’d learned to hide their reactions against far more threatening opponents, but that didn’t mean James, at least, wasn’t shocked at Z’s blunt statement.

But instead of taking offence, Q leaned against the counter, watching the Double O’s, and mildly answered, “Delightful, actually.” Not a hint of embarrassment. Not one bit of modesty or reserve. He was just as comfortable with that side of himself as he was being an MI6 executive.

James couldn’t have loved him more.

“If that’s the case, get him to make coffee,” Alec told Q, gesturing at James. “He can’t resist taking care of people. Tell him you’re dying for a cup.”

“I don’t drink coffee. He knows that.” Q’s eyes lit up impishly. “Though I _am_ gasping for a cuppa.”

“Go sit,” James said, considering for a moment before he put a hand on Q’s back and leaned in to kiss his cheek. He was used to being extravagantly affectionate on missions but reserved when at home. This sort of... _domesticity_ was going to take some adjustment.

“And dinner,” Alec added, following James to the sink like a lost puppy. “You were supposed to bring dinner home, you know.”

James looked back at where Z and Q were seated at the kitchen table. Then, with a smirk, he met Q’s eyes and said, “I did.”

There was silence for a heartbeat as Q’s face reddened and broke into a shy smile. Then Z let out a hearty laugh, leaning far back in his chair. “I fucking like him, mate,” Z said to Q.

The smile never left Q’s face, nor did he break eye contact with James as he said, “Good, ’cause I like fucking him.”

James laughed, hopelessly charmed, even though they had yet to get that far. Q had been coping with the aftermath of almost a year on the run, and James couldn’t bring himself to do more than keep Q company in the shower, hold him as he slept, and bring him back home as soon as possible.

Instead of also laughing, Alec eyed Q suspiciously. “Triplets?”

Both of the twins furrowed their brows at Alec, but Q was the one to take the bait. “Triplets? I don’t... No?”

“Then you’re possessed, Q. MI6 executives aren’t allowed to have a bloody sense of humour,” Alec said gravely. James rolled his eyes and went to make a pot of the tea he’d bought late last evening in hopes of luring Q home with him. The coffee could wait.

Q smiled indulgently and countered, “Tanner’s got one. He just loses it around unpredictable agents who make his life more difficult.”

“Oi,” Alec protested. “Who saved his boss? We’re _effective_ , and unpredictability’s a part of that. Right, James?”

“Don’t look to me for help,” James said, gesturing at Z. “You’ve got a new partner now.”

Alec snorted. “Don’t be an arse. I take him in the field, he gets shot, Q gets pissed at you, and you shoot me. I know how this all ends, and I don’t like any of you well enough to take another bloody bullet.”

“Fuck. I’m done letting you pretend to be superman, trying to stop the fucking things with your god damned chest.” Z’s stern look was almost as effective as Q’s.

And then of course Q joined in, and their combined effort was actually a bit daunting. “Right. Ribs. For fuck’s sake, Alec, why are you even standing? Get some bloody rest.” He turned on his brother and added, “And _you._ You are _not_ taking him out dancing tonight, you git.”

“Fuck.” Z shrugged and looked over at Alec apologetically.

“I hate you all,” Alec said, going to sit down at the kitchen table with a wince. “I don’t have to actually dance. I don’t even _like_ dancing.”

“Yeah, but pulling birds isn’t going to fucking work, mate. You can’t fuck anyone in that state.” Z sounded resigned.

“How the hell would you know?” Alec asked indignantly. “I’ve managed in far worse condition. So has James. Remember Florida?”

“I try not to,” James admitted, turning to check on the electric kettle. Why wasn’t it boiling yet, giving him an excuse to avoid this conversation altogether?

Z eagerly asked, “What happened in Florida?” at almost the same time that Q said, “I don’t want to know.”

“No,” James said before Alec could do more than draw a hitched, pained breath. “Z, there’s painkillers in the bathroom cabinet. One only. And do you want tea or coffee? Or something stronger?”

“Fucking both, if you’re offering,” Z said as he stood. “Ah, spiked coffee, that is.”

“Proper Irish coffee? After you drug Alec, you can make the whipped cream, assuming there’s any left in the fridge.”

“You can get two,” Alec told Z.

“One,” James said flatly.

“I weigh more than you.”

James looked to his... whatever Q was. “You’re the executive. Fix this.”

Q raised his eyebrows and said, “As far as I’m aware, the man’s never followed an order in his life. What on earth makes you think he’d listen to me?”

Ignoring Alec’s smirk, James asked, “Z?”

“The trick is to just fucking _do_ things and not fucking talk about them. He’ll weasel his way out if you let him talk.” Z left the room with a determined stride.

“Well. That explains a great deal,” James said, turning to search for clean mugs.

“Are you saying Z figured out something in a couple days that you haven’t in a couple decades?” Q asked in disbelief.

James smiled faintly, wondering how he could possibly explain that he’d never been able to refuse Alec anything. Between his one-sided feelings and their similarities, saying no to Alec would’ve been even more difficult than saying no to himself.

Of course, Alec had no reason to keep his mouth shut, so he just told Q, “He likes me more than any of you lot do. Your brother’s a bloody terror.”

“Too right. But he definitely keeps you on your toes,” Q said proudly. Then he grinned and added, “You’re a lucky sod, though. Imagine what he’d be like if he didn’t like you at all.”

“Of course he likes me. Everyone likes me,” Alec declared, rubbing at his ribs. “Speaking of which, we need to start his paperwork. You can fast-track it through, right?”

Q sighed. “Have you even _talked_ to the man in charge of hiring his insufferable arse?”

“I _am_ , right now.” Alec grinned at Q. “He belongs in Q Branch, not in the field — though he kept his head on straight when we were under fire. And technically, I don’t even have to talk to you, because he’s still in MI6 custody. I never released him. So we can bring him onboard under one of those prisoner work-study programmes.”

“I’m certain that’s not how it works,” James said, hiding his grin. He was more interested in watching Q’s first encounter with Alec’s peculiar brand of logic.

“What James said.” Q looked flatly at Alec. “Also, I’m almost certain I’m not allowed to directly hire a family member. M and I talked about it earlier, however, and we’ll let you know what we decide.”

“Well, if you’re not making it official, I’m taking him as an assistant,” Alec declared, turning with another wince to watch Z walk into the kitchen.

“Just how ‘cracked’ are your ribs?” James asked suspiciously. “Z, was he X-rayed?”

“Fuck if I know, mate. But the amount of growling that came out of fucking Medical when they dragged him in along with M points towards not a fucking chance.” Z scowled at Alec as he handed over one pill.

James sighed and asked, “Alec, want lasagne for dinner?”

Alec dry-swallowed the tablet. “Of course I do.”

James nodded and went to find his biggest pot and the lasagne pan. “Q, can Z be trusted with my car?”

Q frowned. “Why would you do that when he clearly rode here? Whatever would fit in your tiny car can go in his saddlebags and backpack.”

“Oi, who said I wanted to play courier?” Z protested.

“Because _if_ you can drive my car, _you’re_ taking Alec back to MI6 Medical for proper X-rays,” James ordered, turning his glare on the problematic pair.

Alec frowned. “I’m not going —”

“Then no lasagne,” James interrupted.

Alec’s eyes narrowed. “Q, that’s blackmail.”

“No, that’s negotiation. Which is frankly more than you deserve right now. How did you leave the building without a bloody X-ray?” Q had a knack for sounding a lot more calm than his words would have one believe.

Alec snorted. “Z and I got out with a bloody strike team hunting us. You think a couple of stroppy doctors are going to stop me? Besides, I was busy.”

“Doing what? M was already safe.” Q sounded genuinely curious.

Alec looked to Z as if expecting his help. “I had to get Z home safe. Protective custody, remember?”

“Leave me out of this, mate.” Z shook his head. “In fact, get your fucking jacket. Lasagne takes at least an hour. Let’s go.”

“What?” Alec asked, looking betrayed.

James grinned at Q and said, “He’s just as clever as you are, love.”

“Almost,” Q teased, winking at Z. He stage whispered at James, “Now’s the moment to give Z your keys and sweeten the deal for Alec.”

“Bugger that. Z, stop at a market and pick up a fresh loaf of bread on the way home,” James said, taking the keys out of his jacket. Alec had long ago stolen a key to the flat, so he took off his own, then tossed the car keys to Z. “Don’t get a ticket. And for God’s sake, don’t scratch the paint. It’s a lease, and I hate it.”

“Got it. Alec, mate, let’s get this fucking over with, eh? These two don’t want us around for a bit, anyway.” Z winked at Q as he moved to the doorway.

Stubbornly remaining in his seat, Alec said, “You know there’s nothing they can do for broken ribs.”

“No, but it’ll get you out of my bloody flat long enough to start the lasagne baking and get Q into my shower,” James said bluntly. “Then you can come back, we’ll all have a nice dinner, and you’ll be on enough painkillers that you won’t be able to go to a club. Z will take you safely back home, and I’ll have the Quartermaster to myself for the next two weeks, because I won’t have a car to take _him_ back home.”

Alec sighed and got to his feet, leaning heavily on the table. “If you wanted a bloody kidnapping accomplice, you could’ve just said so. Anything else you want from the market?”

“We may need eggs.” James turned and asked, “Q, what did you want for breakfast?”

Q blinked. Then his grin went feral. “You.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! We appreciate all of your comments, kudos and encouragement -- and your love for our original characters.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Treason, Traitors, and Treachery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501311) by [Zephyrfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zephyrfox/pseuds/Zephyrfox)




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